


a human sort of divinity

by hueue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, He/Him and They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, M/M, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Martin Blackwood, apologies to mr. sims for me ''but what if the power of love''ing his podcast once again, oh and of course, ok welcome to my fic which is basically me going ''gay people real? for 80k words'', the SEXIEST tag......second only to, to everybody else? cosmic horror. to martin? romantic comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29712852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hueue/pseuds/hueue
Summary: There's something living in the archives of what used to be the Magnus Institute, with eyes and static and the desperate wish to be some sort of a person.There's someone living in London, with poetry and wind and sea salt who wishes to be something more than the person he is.Maybe this can work.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, also background wtgfs because love wins <3
Comments: 69
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the shitshow boys. 
> 
> I love two things in life: monster jon's sexy ass and martin k blackwood

The soft crunch of freshly fallen snow and the quiet rush of passing cars echoed as they went deeper into the dark and closer to whatever abandoned building one Timothy Stoker had decided to drag them out to that particular night.

The man himself led the charge followed closely by Sasha with Martin bringing up the rear, billowing out clouds of warm breath with every step. It was the third time this week Tim had called them up at some odd hour, insisting that they just had to check out this place he'd stumbled across online. Normally, Martin would've had more questions about Tim's sudden interest in abandoned places but Sasha had explained vaguely that there was a deeper reasoning to his actions and, never one to pry, Martin had simply accepted that this was now their life. A life of splinters and mildly interesting stories to tell their coworkers during the weekday—not the worst thing when it came down to it. 

All three of them had ditched the more practical clothes they had worn on the first few trips, now all dressed like they were going out for a few drinks rather than busting in the windows of some decrepit building. 

Sasha brushed snowflakes from her curls, "Tim, are we getting close?"

"Just a bit further, Sash. It's round this corner." 

"You still haven't told us where we're going..." 

"All in due time, all in due time." 

She shook her head, tutting to herself but still pressing on. Martin continued silently, trying to commit the scene to memory for some poetic inspiration; something about the falling snow settling on the empty, forgotten settlements really spoke to him. 

Tim turned a corner, the grin on his face widening with each step. A massive building began to come into view, the ghost of something that was once grand stretched over the burned-out husk before them. 

"Whoa." Sasha and Martin whispered, joining Tim on the cracked marble steps of the building. 

With a flourish, Tim spun to face them, "Ladies and gentlemen,  _ welcome  _ to the Magnus Institute. Or what's left of it anyways." 

The building was all charred marble and nearly crumbling infrastructure marred by a considerable amount of colorful graffiti; its windows and doors were covered by flimsy plywood adorned with a brightly colored sheet of paper, emphasizing how incredibly illegal it would be for them to enter. Sasha, never one to be deterred by petty things such as the law, only looked more entranced by the sight, "What's its story, then?" 

"Glad you asked!" Tim leaned against one of the columns, the chain on his pants jingling as he moved, "This is the guts of the Magnus Institute  _ once  _ an iffy at  _ best  _ source of any real life paranormal story under the sun now a burned down piece of shit! It was built in like 1800-something and ran until one of the employees snapped and took a torch to the place,"

"Mm, it sounds like somebody didn't like their job." Sasha joked. 

Martin snorted, "Bit rash of a decision, yeah? Like, sure, sometimes the library is a real drag but I don't think any of us would go and burn it all...right?"

Tim made a so-so gesture and Sasha shrugged. Tim continued, "Apparently, it was the archivist at the time, they just got up one day and—" he mimed clicking a lighter and throwing it behind him, " _ fwoosh _ ."

"Got tired of reading spooky stories, I bet." Sasha posited, "I would. Probably." 

" _ Anyways!  _ We're not here because some nutter burned down a glorified library twenty years ago or because a bit of the architecture was done by Robert Smirke (which is, honestly,  _ so _ cool)—we, my dear friends, are here because, if my sources are to be believed, there is a  _ monster  _ in the basement."

Martin sputtered, "A  _ w _ - _ what?!"  _

Sasha beamed, "A monster?"

With excitement buzzing at his fingertips, Tim rapped his knuckles against the plywood, "Right in the archives, where the fire was started." he began, "A whole lot of people who've been through here before all say the same thing about there being  _ something  _ in the archives and the whole time they're here they feel like they're being  _ watched. _ " 

"Paranoia?" Martin offered. 

"I don't think so, Martin. Maybe it's something more, maybe something..." he wiggled his fingers, " _ spooky."  _

Martin furrowed his brow, "Sounds to me like there's somebody living in the archives."

"Or some _ thing _ ...?"

"Hmph, I-I really don't wanna be attacked by some drifter tonight, Tim." he set his hands on his hips, "We've got work tomorrow and I do not want to be laid up at A&E all night.  _ Again. _ "

Tim put his hands up, "Okay, first: You falling through that ceiling was  _ not  _ my fault, and two: The monster doesn't even attack people, apparently it just kind of...stares at you. Well, um, except once but, like—"

Sasha narrowed her eyes, "Tim."

"Sasha."

"What happened during the 'once'." 

Tim made a flurry of movements before groaning, "Nothing even  _ happened!  _ It was just, like, this woman, Helen something, was seen here last and then disappeared but, I mean, what are the  _ chances!  _ Even  _ if  _ it comes at us, I can fight it off just fine."

Sasha took a step closer to him to accentuate the height difference between them, she looked down, "If we get kidnapped and/or murdered, I'll be pissed." 

"Acknowledged." he offered his arm, "Shall we?" 

She took it, "Of course."

"Wait, wh-what?!" Martin fretted, "We're still going inside?"

"I want to see a monster, Martin." Sasha said as if it was a perfectly rational reason to want to risk getting murdered by a supernatural being. She offered a small smile, snowflakes glistening against her rounded glasses, "We'll be fine. Who knows, maybe there's not even a monster and Tim's just gone crazy." 

Tim scoffed, "Psh, as if." 

Martin rocked on the balls of his feet, "Christ, fine, okay." he shakily joined the duo, "How do we even get in?" 

With relative ease, Tim pushed the plywood inside, the sound of it clattering against the dark green marble echoed throughout the massive interior.

"Ah." 

Sasha entered first, her scrutinizing gaze detailing every inch of the decrepit foyer. Decades-old soot and collapsed support beams littered the ground; every one of their steps were intruders on the quiet. She shivered, not from the cold but from the slimy feeling that washed over her once she was fully inside, "Totally getting that 'being watched' thing." 

"Really?" Tim's jovial expression quickly turned to discomfort once he stepped inside, "God, yeah. Gross." 

Martin crossed the threshold, an same overwhelming sense of  _ scrutiny  _ pierced him like a knife through his rib cage, 

"I-I don't...like this." he muttered, "Are we sure there isn't somebody actually  _ watching  _ us right now? Or are we pinning this on a ghost?" 

Tim shook off his frown but the discomfort was still evident in his every move, "Good thing we all look hot, right? Give this monster a show." he pretended to take his coat off in an exaggeratedly sultry way before bundling up twice as hard, "The architecture is amazing in here, though. Wonder what it was like before the fire..." 

Sasha snapped a few photos of a scorched portrait hanging crookedly on the wall. A warped vision of an infuriatingly smug looking Victorian man looked back through the soot, the space where his eyes should be nothing more than torn canvas, "Probably less graffiti, yeah? Can't imagine  _ 'Gerry was here, eat shit Elias' _ spray painted on the floor was a part of" she peered closer to the golden plaque, "Jonah Magnus' vision." 

"Who knows, maybe he was some weirdo." Tim suggested, slinging his arm around Sasha's shoulders. 

"I mean..." Martin joined them, "he  _ did  _ make a whole institute just to collect Goosebumps stories."

"Ha! Right on." Tim clicked his tongue, "You were a fucking weirdo, Jonah Magnus." 

"Aye." Martin and Sasha agreed, holding back laughter to uphold the jokingly serious atmosphere they'd created. 

The eyes still watched.

Tim spun on his heels, his trademarked smile bright on his face, "Anybody fancy a trip to the archives?"

_ Click. _

☄

Air thick with dust and mildew filled the lungs the second Sasha managed to pry open the double oak doors to the basement, silence hanging between the three of them as they worked down the uneven steps that gave way to a long, echoing hallway. Wires hung from rotted away parts of the ceilings and spiders scuttled away to safety once they were caught in the beam of Tim's torch. The wood floor was scratched and stained, barely visible once they took two steps in—almost every centimeter of it was covered by yellowed, aged paper. There was graffiti even on these faded wallpapered walls, but it wasn't...it was  _ right.  _ Upstairs the graffiti had been typical—vulgar words, vulgar phrases, tags and an almost impressive amount of dicks—but down in the archives, there were just  _ eyes.  _

Eyes, eyes, eyes. On each stretch of wall there were at least twenty staring eyes, the fact that they were just  _ spray paint  _ not doing anything to relieve the overwhelming sense of being known that overtook them. Because that feeling was  _ so much worse _ in the archives. Not the slimy sense of being watched that they'd felt upstairs but the almost  _ suffocating  _ knowledge that you were currently being torn open in search of  _ something.  _

Tim spoke first, rapping his knuckles right in the pupil of one of the eyes, "Somebody's got an aesthetic." 

Martin weakly laughed, Sasha continued on with her lips pressed in a tight line. She brought out her phone and took more photos before muttering, "...this doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?" Tim carefully bent over to scoop up a handful of the papers. 

"You said the fire started  _ here,  _ right? In the archives?" she began, in that tone of voice that told Martin and Tim that their job was to shut up and let her work it out, "Nothing here looks burnt.  _ Nothing.  _ Upstairs has all the textbook signs of a massive fire but  _ here _ , where the fire  _ started _ , is fine? With all this paper laying around, too?" she pursed her lips, "It doesn't make sense."

Tim let out a long sigh, "That's not the only weird thing." he held up a sheet of paper, squinting to make out the handwriting, "S-Statement of one Ivo Lensik, originally given...March 13th, 2007."

"Statement?" Martin mused, "Like a will?"

"No, no, it looks like a...story? It's written like a story." he scanned it, "But what I'm getting at is that this place burned down in the  _ nineties _ , i-it wasn't around in 2007 so  _ how  _ could somebody have given a statement to an institute that no longer existed." 

"M...Maybe people who've came here before kept up the tradition? Add to the spooky stories already here?" 

Tim leafed through the stack of papers in his grip, his expression tense, "...' _As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crow—"_ he cut himself off with a retch, throwing the papers to the ground as if they'd burned him. Fog lifted from Martin and Sasha's minds, suddenly very aware of how still they had been standing while Tim read. 

"What the  _ fuck."  _ Tim sputtered, "What the  _ fuck?!"  _

"What just happened?!" Martin worried, stepping to one of the few spots free from statements. 

"I-I don't know, I...I just started reading and then it was like I was  _ there  _ and Jesus Christ, I hated that." he stomped on the pages for good measure, "So. Definitely supernatural." 

Sasha took a few pictures of the statement she still held in her hands, placing it gingerly back to the ground afterwards, "Definitely supernatural." she brought out her own torch, shining it around herself, "Possibly malicious. Might not like us here maybe? But..." 

"But nothing." Tim spat, "We should get out of here."

"What?! Didn't you bring us here  _ because  _ of the monster?"

"I thought it was just some bullshit on the internet! I would've never brought you guys here if I actually believed it was  _ dangerous!"  _

"Well, it is and I want to know what we're up against!"

"Sasha!"

"Tim!" 

The two continued their hushed argument as Martin's eyes were pulled to something at the end of the hallway. A light had turned on. Its yellowed hue filtering through the frosted glass of the door and flooding out from under the door. He held his breath, grip tightening on his heavy torch; he opened his mouth to alert the others then something was pushed out from under the door—a tape recorder, a bloody tape recorder. It clicked on, daring him to come closer. 

"...if there's a monster in London we should make sure it isn't dangerous!"

"Leave it to the cops, Sash!"

"I—"

"Guys!" Martin shouted, both halted, eyes glued to him. Sasha's burning with curiosity and Tim's with regret, Martin pointed to the new source of light, "Something's up."

Their eyes flicked to the whirring tape recorder, Tim swearing under his breath once Sasha began to march towards it. The whirring only seemed to get louder as they approached, Sasha regarded the door it sat in front of—a plaque on it reading in heavy, important letters: HEAD ARCHIVIST. 

Martin fidgeted with the fringe of his scarf, "T-The archivist. That's who burned down the place, right?"

"Yeah." Tim groaned. 

Sasha knocked heavily on the door, "Hello? Is anybody in there?" after no answer, she frowned, "Hello?" 

" _ Go—away— _ " 

All three jumped back from the sudden voice that came from the tape recorder. Well, it wasn't a  _ voice,  _ per se. It was like an audio ransom note, all chopped up clips of other people's voices repurposed and twisted, clunky and awkward. 

" _ Not—safe—danger—dangerous. _ " 

They shared a look, Sasha tried the handle of the door. 

" _ Don't—don't—don't— _ " came the panicked response from the tape, " _ don't—don't—d-d-d- _ "

Sasha flinched back, "Okay! Okay! Good lord, okay." she held her hands up, "So, you can see us but we can't see you. Okay." 

" _ Yes—okay—see—you— _ " 

"So you're the thing watching us." Tim sneered, "Who are you?"

There was a moment before the tape answered, " _ Not—a—who— _ "

"What the  _ hell _ does that mean?"

Martin raised an eyebrow, "I th-think it means that it's not like us. It's not human." 

Tim huffed, "Fine then.  _ What  _ are you?" 

" _ Archivist— _ " 

The capital 'A' was felt in the way it spoke, in the hushed, scared voice it used to name itself. 

"Not an answer."

" _ What—I—am—answer— _ " 

Sasha studied the tape recorder itself, she took another picture, "It's...it's just a normal tape recorder. I don't know how it's doing this." 

"It's a monster."

"Hm." she straightened her glasses, "Should we call you the Archivist?" 

The tape paused for a split second then resumed, " _ Yes— _ "

"Okay then, Archivist. Can you speak normally? Like without other people's voices."

The tape skipped, " _ No—mouth— _ " 

Sasha's brow furrowed, "What?"

" _ No—mouth— _ " it skipped again, the borrowed voice it used straining _ ,  _ " _ not—needed—it—was―not— _ " 

"Do you need help?" 

The words tumbled out of Martin's mouth before he knew it, silencing the Archivist's strained tones. The tape whirred but the Archivist didn't return, as if its existence had suddenly ended. Tim and Sasha looked at him like he had gone mad, maybe he had if he was going around asking monsters if they needed help. His caretaker instinct knew no bounds, apparently. 

Still, there was no reply, the Archivist dutifully silent.

Martin leaned towards the door, "Archivist...?"

Static squealed from the tape recorder, a physical, dangerous noise. 

" _ Go. _ "

Then the distortion reached a fever pitch, the tape recorder honest to god  _ exploding  _ in Sasha's hands—magnetic tape spooling out and the cassette snapping clean in half. Sasha yelped, dropping the mangled handful of plastic and shaking away the black liquid that spilled from the mechanics; she didn't get anything else out before Tim grabbed her arm and began sprinting towards the exit, yelling for Martin as he went.

Martin stared at the door for one more moment before he ran. Something stared back at him, he was sure.

The feeling of scrutiny doubled, the graffitied eyes stared. Not with malice or hate, or anger.

No. 

Just curiosity. Hungry,  _ starving  _ curiosity. 

☄

They finally stopped running once they reached a well-lit, busy road, chests heaving and hearts beating out of their rib cages. Clouds of steam escaped from their panting mouths and flew up into the clear night sky, Tim frantically looked behind him, "It's not following us, right?"

"No, no," Martin assured, "w-we're okay." 

Tim sighed in relief, Sasha looked awestruck, breathily exclaiming, "A monster—a real life monster!" she grinned, "We just talked to a real monster!" 

Tim took a sharp breath, "Whatever. Whatever, you know!" he threw his hands up, "We got out and we're never going back so it's okay! The Archivist,  _ whatever  _ it is, can shove it." 

Sasha crossed her arms, excitement dimming, "Tim, aren't you just a  _ bit  _ curious? Something that isn't human is in  _ London!  _ That's, that's incredible." 

"Nope!" he shrugged, "Not curious at all, not even thinking about it, really!" he wiped down his face, "All I'm curious about is how much alcohol I've got at home."

"Tim—" 

"Sasha, can we..." he sighed, then motioned for her to get closer. She did, crouching so Tim could whisper something in her ear. 

A moment passed and Sasha's face crumpled, standing straight up and pulling him into a hug "Oh, Tim, I-I'm sorry, I, oh, God. You told me and I just...I'm sorry." 

Martin stood awkwardly on the sidelines. He was very aware of his role as the third wheel to end all third wheels but it didn't make it any more comfortable for him to watch touching moments on the outside looking in. Tim and Sasha had been friends for years before they met him—with in-jokes and traditions and anniversaries. Martin was never going to catch up and it was fine, honestly! Totally fine! Not lonely or anything like that at all! 

They separated, hands still linked as Sasha pulled out her phone, "I'm going to send these photos off to my friend, leave the mysteries to her. She'd probably have better luck than me."

"The one with the ghost hunting show? Melanie something?" 

"Melanie King." she nodded, "She'd love this but for now, I think I just wanna go home." 

"Hear hear." Martin yawned, the adrenaline drained from his body, "I've had enough adventure for tonight."

"Yeah," Tim huffed out a laugh, "that place was a bit more than I was expecting, honestly. Might hold off on going to other spooky places, no more haunted tape recorders." he ran a hand through his hair, disdainfully looking in the direction of the Magnus Institute, "Least the thing isn't  _ looking _ at us anymore." 

Sasha nodded, "Thank God."

Martin swallowed, "Ha, yeah."

The eyes watching him focused in. 


	2. Chapter 2

Martin's keys clattered against his table once he finally reached his flat, him flicking on the lights and letting out a groan that was half-exhaustion and half-annoyance at the feeling of being watched that persisted over him. What could the Archivist even  _ want?  _ It wasn't like there was anything interesting in his flat—just a few dead succulents he couldn't bring himself to toss, a nice rug, and a rainbow scarf he was knitting to match the pink-white-blue one he currently wore—nothing a monster would find interesting. 

"I didn't mean to upset you, you know." he said to thin air, shaking snow from his hair. No answer came, predictably. 

His phone buzzed, texts from Tim and Sasha lighting up the screen. 

Tim ;): back home. im really sorry about tonight. gonna get piss drunk, fuck the archivist.

Sasha <3: I'm home too! Glad we're all safe, might do some research on the Magnus Institute to send to Melanie. And Tim, it's okay, we're all safe and we're all okay. 

Tim ;): i know. i was just scared idk. am scared maybe 

Tim ;): i love you guys 

Sasha <3: Love you too, Tim <333 

Martin smiled at his phone, momentarily ignoring the Archivist's presence to type off a quick message.

✴Martin✴: love you guys sm!! i had fun tonight!! like yeah maybe the monster thing wasn't ideal but i love spending time with you guys :) see you both tomorrow? 

Tim ;): 100% marto

Sasha <3: Of course! xx 

He pocketed his phone, the intrusive feeling redoubling its efforts. Martin swatted around his head as if it would be so easily dismissed, "Piss off!" he hissed, peeling off his layers and heading towards his bedroom, "I literally have nothing for you, w-whatever you are—some  _ haunted  _ tape recorder with stolen voices and a penchant for arson. I'm not very interesting if you haven't noticed." __

Yet again, the air didn't answer. Martin wondered if the Archivist was responding in its dimly lit office with its stuttering voice as it watched him—the simple mess of a man it'd taken a shine to for some godforsaken reason. 

What would his mother say, if he told her? She'd probably sneer in the way she always did when it came to him, say something about how  _ useless  _ he was and how  _ of course  _ he managed to get caught up with some terrifying being. And he'd think about talking back, about finally sticking up for himself but...he wouldn't. He'd just say that he loved her and go back to his lonely flat. 

"Shit." he muttered to himself, wiping away the beginnings of tears, "Sorry, I—heh, why am I apologizing? It's not like you care."

Suddenly, the presence lifted. The eyes pressing against his back finally leaving him truly alone in his flat. Martin blinked, not sure what to make of the turn of events. Was it just that the Archivist had decided he was no longer interesting or was it an apology of some sort? A response to something he had said? 

Martin sighed, best not to try and figure out the motivations of a monster. It didn't  _ care,  _ he just wasn't someone worth watching. 

☄

When Martin woke up there was a tape recorder whirring away on his chest and several frantic texts from Tim and Sasha explaining that they were dealing with the same situation. A tape recorder had appeared somewhere in each of their respective flats and none knew  _ how  _ it could've gotten in—no signs of forced entry, no smashed in windows, nothing. They had been found and given something so easily, Martin swallowed the panic in his throat. 

It was just a normal tape recorder just like back in the archives, even had a production number on the side that resulted in a frozen computer when Martin googled it. He didn't know how long it had been recording him but he was confident that it had been long enough for the tape to run out and yet it still rolled on in its casing. His phone buzzed, a text from Tim informing them that he had taken a hammer to the thing to little effect. Another buzz, a text from Sasha asking if either of them had heard what was on it. 

Martin stared at the still whirring tape, "Did it break in here? Did...did  _ you  _ break in, Archivist? I-I'd guess you'd be listening to this right? Somehow..." there was no answer, he groaned, "Fine, fine, I'll play your games." 

He grabbed the recorder and pressed his finger against the rewind button, holding his breath until he heard the tape click. 

"Hello? Hello? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Hello? Hello? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Hello? Hello? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Hello? Hello? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Hello? Hello? I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Hello? Hel—" 

Martin hit the stop button, breathing in relief when it mercifully allowed itself to be switched off. The resulting silence was louder than any other. "Shit." 

Carefully, he stuffed the recorder into his bedside drawer, chills racing down his spine. He stilled his hand and grabbed his phone and pull up his group chat:

✴Martin✴: it's apologizing.

✴Martin✴: on the tape, it's apologizing to us or at least trying to?

Sasha <3: Are you sure?

✴Martin✴: very sure

Sasha <3: Mine's different. It's just...it sounds like an old audio

instruction manual for the tape recorder?

✴Martin✴: weird

Sasha <3: Very weird.

Sasha <3: Tim, what does yours say?

Sasha <3 : Tim?

Tim ;): i threw it away

Sasha <3: that's okay.

Sasha <3: Did you listen to it before you tossed it out?

Tim ;): yeah

Sasha <3: What did it say?

Tim ;): circus music

Sasha <3: oh

Sasha <3: I'm sorry, Tim.

Martin raised an eyebrow—what was so bad about circus music? Sure, he'd never been the fondest of circuses but he felt as though there was something massive he was missing. He considered for a moment about sending his sympathies for  _ whatever  _ they were talking about but thought against it. 

Tim ;): it's okay, you're not the one who brought your friends into a death basement

✴Martin✴: tim it's really ok!! nobody's hurt

✴Martin✴: i don't know why but i really don't think its going to hurt us. 

✴Martin✴: it likes us? i think

Tim ;): it likes you marto, you're the only one it apologized to

Tim ;): maybe it has a crush

He scoffed, that'd be just his luck. First bit of romantic action in years and it comes from some _ thing  _ in the basement of a building it burned down. Well. Wouldn't be his  _ worst  _ date. The Archivist would probably still rank leagues above that one time he had went on a date with a magician. 

✴Martin✴: ok sure :P

✴Martin✴: can we talk about this at work? i gotta get ready 

Tim ;): sure man

Tim ;): cannot believe we are getting stalked by tape recorders

Sasha <3: What a time to be alive!

He got ready for work in record time—sue him but the knowledge that his flat was so easy to break into didn't exactly instill him with much comfort. He  _ did _ believe what he'd said about the Archivist's feelings towards them but if he caught himself looking over his shoulders more on his way to the bookshop...well...the others didn't need to know. 

A sigh of relief escaped him once the quaint little shop came into view. Objectively, he knew he was no safer inside some run-down bookshop but something about it always made him feel safe. No eldritch beings were coming into Paper Trail Bookshop—only rather aggressive old ladies and the odd appearance of that short bloke with the scar. Martin pushed open the glass door and made a beeline for the break room,

“Marto!” Tim greeted with a smile dressed and acting as if his morning hadn’t consisted of a supernatural experience. He pushed himself off Sasha's side, “We were just wondering where you were.”

Sasha set down a stack of newly donated books, “We were getting a bit worried. You know, with everything going on.” she twirled a finger around her glasses chains, coincidentally (or not, knowing Sasha) studded with little Nazar eyes, “You alright?” 

He nodded, “Y-Yeah, everything’s fine―I mean, not the whole Archivist thing, but besides that, peachy keen.” he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat hanger, “What are we...doing about that?” 

Tim raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

“Are we, are we going back or...?”

“ _ What!?”  _ Tim nearly fell off his chair, eyes wide, “Why the  _ fuck  _ would we go back?” 

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, “A-A-Answers, maybe?!” 

He groaned, “Answers are  _ not  _ worth getting  _ killed _ , Martin. I know you said you don’t think it’d hurt us b-but you don’t  _ know  _ that, it, it can...” he took a deep breath, the uncharacteristic anger fading slowly from his face, “sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Martin sat across from him, “I didn’t expect you to be so...affected from this honestly.” 

"I just don't want either of you getting hurt because of my dumb mistake." 

Sasha sighed, pausing in her cataloging, "Tim, none of that was your fault."

"And if that spooky bastard comes after one of you? Whose fault would it be that you even were there in the first place?"

"We have our own free will, Tim." she countered, "We could've easily said no, hell, I could've stayed home with my cat and Martin could've spent the night watching Countdown reruns. But we said yes, if anything happens—it's on nobody but ourselves, okay? We make our own decisions. Now," she playfully socked his shoulder, "stop feeling sorry for yourself." 

Tim smiled slightly, "Aw, James, you broke my shoulder." he leaned on her, "Thanks though."

"Always, Stoker." she resumed her work, opening an evidently well-loved copy of  _ Lord of the Flies  _ and carefully removing the previous owner's copious sticky notes, "Also, to continue on our spooky little situation, I forwarded everything to Melanie and she said she'd check it out as soon as she could with her crew. Crew meaning, you know, her and her girlfriend." 

Martin chuckled, "Didn't she have an actual ghost show at some point?" 

"Yeah but something went down and they all kind of went their separate ways. They were already thinking of moving to YouTube so Mel just decided to keep going , I guess." she shrugged, "She got to keep the name though, which was cool.  _ Anyways _ , she did some research last night and apparently there's a lot of missing people and just  _ weird  _ stuff connected to the place. So much so that there used to be a whole task force of the police  _ just  _ for the Magnus Institute." 

"Anything about our tape recorder stalker?" Tim asked, propping his head up with his hands. 

Sasha made a 'so-so' gesture, "Maybe? It talked about the Head Archivist, the one that burned the place down but there wasn't a name attached to it. The one  _ before  _ the one that did it was named Gertrude Robinson but she disappeared  _ way  _ before the fire started. Nothing said 'and yeah they have a scary ghost monster  _ thing _ in the basement' if that's what you're asking." 

"So we're still in the dark."

"Pretty much."

Martin chewed on his bottom lip, "We could...ask it...?" 

Tim groaned heavily,  _ "Martin..."  _

Sasha's eyebrows shot up, "Martin, what!" 

"H-Hear me out!" he stuck his hands out, "I reached out to  _ us _ , it wouldn't have done that if it just wanted us to forget it ever existed. Maybe, I dunno, maybe it wants us to go back." 

"Absolutely not." Tim stood, walking to the other side of the breakroom, "Sasha, please tell my good friend Martin to stop trying to get killed." 

"I won't get killed!" 

"I know that," Sasha said, " _ we  _ know that but still, just jumping into the unknown isn't always the, um,  _ best  _ idea. And that's coming from  _ me. _ " 

The memory of Sasha following a random man into an alley in the middle of the night based solely off the promise that he had a free kitten for her bubbled up in his mind. If  _ she  _ was telling him something was too dangerous, then he knew he was probably off the deep end of bad ideas. 

She offered him an understanding smile, "I know, I want answers too, but it's probably better if we forget about it.Some things are best left alone."

Martin sighed, the looping apology of cobbled together voices repeated in his mind mixed with how curiously the Archivist had watched the leave. He tried to shove it all in a box and pushed it far, far away, "Yeah." he said, "You guys are right."

☄

There were two things Martin had always liked about himself: 1) he'd always been very good with directions, able to find his way home from nearly everywhere in London and 2) he was a very good swimmer which was helpful given that he was very much off the deep end of bad ideas.

Half-melted snow wet the cuffs of his jeans as he made his way back to the Magnus Institute, one hand clutching his phone with 999 at the ready and the other curled around his torch. The charred building loomed in the distance, coming closer with each step. This was a stupid plan, this wasn't even really a  _ plan.  _ His one goal was to talk to the Archivist and ask what it's deal was and if it resulted in him getting his face eaten off—well, there were probably worse ways to die. Not many, but some. Eh, he hadn't expected to live that long anyways. 

The mud gave way to cracked concrete which led right back up to the marble steps of the Magnus Institute, the entrance still wide open from where they had fled just the night beforehand. A small part of Martin said that he could still turn back, that he could forget about the Magnus Institute and leave it to people whose  _ job  _ was to deal with monsters in London, but a much larger part knew that he'd never be able to let it go. He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. 

He beelined it through the foyer, the feeling of overwhelming scrutiny draping over him like a too-heavy blanket. No use wasting time when he knew what he was really there for. 

The archives were just as creepy as he remembered, the endless sea of yellowed paper and the graffitied eyes yawned out into the darkness. 

"Hello?" he called as he walked deeper into the gaping maw, "A-Archivist? It's me, from before. You sent me a tape recorder? Well, heh, you sent  _ all  _ of us one actually. That  _ was  _ you right?" 

No answer. He came to a stop outside of the Head Archivist's door, the light was still on in the office but Martin could see no movement through the frosted glass. 

"Um...I just wanted to ask you some questions, if that's alright." 

Again, silence. Martin shifted on his feet, "Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

" _ Leave— _ "

He jumped at the voice, fishing through his pockets to find a tape recorder had manifested in his pocket, "Christ! Okay, hi! So you can here me."

" _ Yes—leave—now—"  _

"Wait, I-I just want to talk." 

" _ Leave—Martin—Blackw-o-o-d— _ " __

Martin shivered, Tim's voice relayed through the speaker, a clip from when he had yelled for him while they fled the night before. His last name was more jagged, a series of voices all mashed together to complete it. How had it known his name? He swallowed back the fear, it was just trying to scare him off. 

"I'm not leaving."

The tape recorder rattled in his hands, sending a blinding shock down his arm, "Shit!" he threw it on instinct, it clattering to the ground a ways away from him, "Oh, fuck you!" he groaned, "I'm trying to be nice, you dickhead." 

The tape still rolled on, dead air hanging between them, Martin scoffed, "Are you  _ ignoring me  _ now? Jesus Christ, are you five?" 

Static crackled, he huffed, "Fine!" 

Let it be known that Martin had been described at least once or twice as 'surprisingly bitchy'. Yes, he was incredibly patient but he'd also been known to key a bookstore guest's car after they'd misgendered him one too many times. He'd come too far just to get the silent treatment from a damn tape recorder. But what would make a monster talk to him?

Martin looked down at the paper covering the ground, hm. He shoved his hand in his pocket, finding the lighter he'd forgotten to return to Tim. Bit rash to go directly to arson but desperate times, he guessed. 

"Archivist?" he asked one last time, "Are you still there?" 

Nothing. 

Martin bent down and picked a statement off the ground at random, a long detailed account of some sickness by a woman named Jane Prentiss. He held it loosely in one hand and flicked the lighter alight with the other, with little hesitation he placed the stack of paper over the fire until more than half of the words were consumed by flames. He dropped it, letting the fire catch other the other sta— 

_ BZZTFWSSHHHHH… _

Harsh static roared in his ear, screaming and sounding...pained? Something fell inside the Archivist's office, a heavy  _ thump  _ followed by the sound of something clattering against hardwood. 

" _Pl-Please,_ _please,_ _stop,_ _please._ " a new voice cried from the tape recorder, panting and strained under layers of distortion. " _It_ , _it_ " an ember caught another paper, " _hurts—"_ the tape skipped, " _hurts—_ " the tape skipped, " _hurts—_ " the tape skipped. 

Panic shot into Martin's heart, he muttered frantic apologies as he stomped out the growing flames until there was nothing more than ash and the static had quieted. "I'm so sorry!" he panted, "I-I didn't know it'd hurt you, I just thought it'd annoy you!" 

_"You_ _already_ _were."_

"Okay, fine, I deserve that but honestly, are you...okay? I don't know what you are but that can't have been pleasant." 

A moment passed, Martin wondered if he'd won himself another round of the silent treatment before the tape began rolling again, " ** _Why_** **_are_** **_you_** **_here_** _?"_

There was an odd liquid quality to the question, like the air around him had turned sweet and painfully acidic all at once. His mouth was moving before he realized, "Because you're interesting to me a-and I'm interesting to you. I think. You watched me back at my flat but you didn't watch Tim or Sasha...I guess I want to know why. I'm nothing special, I don't even like  _ being  _ me most of the time so why would something like you think me worthy of any type of attention. And you scare me for some reason. No, you don't, you don't scare me that much, it's more that I'm...I'm scared for you. I think you need help." The words stopped finally, Martin took a shaky breath, "S-Sorry, I-I didn't mean to say that much."

Another moment. Then, " _You_ _should_ _be_ _scared_ _of_ _me._ "

"I mean, probably." Martin shrugged, "I'm not, though. Sorry to disappoint." his eyebrows perked up, "Wait, you've been using the same voice for a while."

" _It's_ _mine._ _Why_ _aren't_ _you_ _scared_ _of_ _me?"_

The Archivist's voice was sonorous and smooth beneath the static, masculine and had a slight monotone quality to it. It had a genuinely nice voice, nothing like the guttural snarls that Martin had guessed it's voice would be. It sounded  _ human _ . 

"I don't know why I'm not scared of you." he answered, "I'm just not. You're just a tape recorder." 

" _I_ _am not a tape_ _recorder._ "

"Could've fooled me." he joked, "Though yesterday you said you didn't have a mouth. So how are you talking?" 

" _I do not have a mouth. I still remember how I used to speak._ " it answered, " _Using_ _other voices is easier, though tedious, it's...it's hard to focus on who I used to be. I'm not meant to do that._ " 

Martin furrowed his brow, "That...that sounds awful." he glanced around himself, the damp basement seeming more like a prison than it had just a second beforehand, "I'm so sorry."

"... _ W-Why?" _

"Because you're all alone down here." he paused, "And I know what it's like to be all alone." The tape switched off suddenly, the white noise ceasing all at once, "Archivist?" 

"I knocked over my tapes." came the Archivist's voice from behind the oak door, Martin held his breath, "I'm here. Inside." 

The door squeaked open, though nobody could be seen. Gingerly, Martin pried it the rest of the way open, waiting for something to jump out and attack. 

The office was cluttered beyond belief, file cabinets turned over and towers of statements that looked a breath away from falling over. Light from the old lamp in the corner washed everything in a dim amber, Martin got the distinct feeling that he was stepping into a memory. And true to the Archivist's word, there was a small pile of old cassette tapes that'd apparently fallen off the big, fancy desk. Untrue to the Archivist's word, it was not inside. 

"Where are you?"

"Here." came its answer. Martin flinched, it had sounded as if the Archivist was right next to his ear.

"Are you...hiding...?"

"Yes." 

"Why?"

"I wanted to watch you, didn't want to be watched back."

"Okay. Creepy."

The presence of far more than just one pair of eyes crawled up his back. He shook it off, bending over and gathering the fallen tapes so he could place them back on the desk. 

"You still aren't scared." the Archivist noted.

"Hm, what? Oh, no, no, I'm not." 

"I could kill you." it insisted, static rose but it felt more like posturing than truly threatening, "I could rip your throat out."

"You could, but you won't." 

He got the feeling that the eyes blinked, "How are you so sure?" 

"Because you haven't yet." he centered the tapes, "A threat is just words if you don't deliver." 

Silence fell, Martin leaned against the desk, scanning the endless files and tapes. Small things were scattered around too—a ratty yellow cardigan, a pair of cracked glasses, and a dust covered mug. Evidence of a life that used to live in this small, cramped office. He sat on the edge of the desk, picking up a random file and leafing through it. 

"You smell of the Lonely." it said suddenly, Martin raised an eyebrow.

"The what?"

"Sea salt and wind. Faintly but it's there." 

"I don't..."

"I would like you to come back."

His eyes widened, he placed the file down, "Oh! R-Really?"

"Yes."

"Like on weekends or...?"

"Often." something shifted, "As often as you're able." 

"Will I get to actually  _ see  _ you someday?"

A pause, "Maybe." it clicked what might’ve been a tongue, it sounded like a clunk of a Pause/Play button, "Nobody's perceived me in some time, I can't tell you what to expect. I'm not exactly sure what I look like." 

Martin looked over the desk, full of scatterbrained notes in a whole host of languages. He didn't understand a word of it—something about a door and somebody named Helen or Michael? Carefully, he tried to make his way around without toppling one of the stacks, "Now  _ that  _ sounds lonely. You could get a mirror in here, that's what I'd do." 

The Archivist hemmed, "Is it? You avoid looking at yourself more often than needed, your mother always chided you for it—you'd leave for work with your tie on backwards because you couldn't stand to look at yourself. There's only one mirror in your house, it's small and in a gold frame, Sasha James bought it for your birthday two years back but you still haven't put it up. It's still buried in your closet, gathering dust." 

He bit his lip, heart beating against his rib cage, all air vacating his lungs, "...H-How did you know that?" 

"It's what I'm for. Watching and Knowing and  _ Seeing _ ." 

"So, what, you just know  _ everything?"  _

"Yes. Everything about you and your little life. I could tear out every single secret from you."

"..."

Its smile was audible, "You're scared now."

He slammed the book he'd been holding back onto the desk. Martin sniped, "What is  _ wrong  _ with you? I'm trying to be nice and all you've done is try to scare me away—if you really want me gone so bad then fine!" he made his way towards the door, stepping carefully around the mess littering the floor, "Don't bother sending another apology because I'm not coming back." 

"W-Wait!" a flash of movement caught his eye, Martin turned, he caught the slightest glimpse of what might've been a hand, "Wait, Martin, don't...don't go. I apologize, I-I just, I don't understand why you're being kind to me. Most who visit either do it on dares or because they'd rather like to kill me so you, you confuse me. That's all." the thing that might've been a hand tensed, "I'm not good with talking, with, with conversations. I'm not...human."

"Archivist." he groaned, "Just because you're not human doesn't mean you don't deserve basic kindness. You don't see me kicking cats across alleys, now." 

"No, you, you like cats. Though you like dogs more, particularly spaniels."

Martin crossed his arms, "Okay, look. I'll come back but only if you agreed to not  _ Know _ anything about me, if we're gonna be," what are they? Friends? Sure, whatever, friends it is, "friends then you've got to find stuff about me the old-fashioned way." 

"You're still coming back?" it asked, it sounded hopeful? Well, as hopeful as its monotone voice allowed it to get. 

"I'll think about it. No promises." 

A beat, "Okay, yes. Of course." almost sheepishly, it continued, "Are you leaving now?"

He glanced at his watch, it wasn't late by any means but he'd rather start his walk home while there were still people on the streets, "Probably should. Thanks for...not eating me, I guess." 

"I wasn't going to. I-I wouldn't."

"I knew that." he smiled, "You aren't that good at threatening me. Have a good night, Archivist." 

"Goodnight, Martin Blackwood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay people [LOUD BOOING]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just learned my section breaks translate to emojis on my phone. do not text.

The first clear thought he'd been able to think came right after he locked his flat's door behind him:  _ What the fuck was that?  _

Of all the scenarios he'd gone through of how that confrontation could've gone—the Archivist trying and failing to threaten him for nearly an hour only to immediately abandon that tactic once it seemed like Martin was _actually_ going to leave hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd gone for an answer but only came back more confused: How'd the Archivist have no mouth but still a voice? What did it used to be, who had that voice originally belong to? What had it meant by Martin 'smelling of the Lonely'? 

All this swirled in his mind as he flopped down onto his sofa, groaning into the cushions. He couldn't tell Tim or Sasha, they'd have his head if they knew he'd willingly gone alone to have a chat with a monster, maybe he could tell Sasha's ghost hunting friend? Just a little heads up, a friendly saying text informing her that, no, the Archivist probably wasn't some crazed spirit hungry for human blood and, yes, it had a tendency to be an absolute arse. 

A perverse bit of excitement struck him at the realization that he now had a secret. Martin didn't have many secrets, well, not many  _ interesting  _ secrets. He doubted lying on his CV could be considered a salacious bit of gossip but a covert friendship with an inhuman being? Now  _ that _ was something. 

Distantly, he knew he should probably be freaking out but he couldn't help himself from feeling just the bit like he was holding his breath, lying in wait to see how the hell this would turn out. Maybe he'd successfully befriend a monster, maybe he'd die—either was fine. 

Martin sighed, he was really doing this, huh? For friendship or death. 

☄

It rained the next day which wasn't at all out of place in London but still appeared as a quiet confirmation of the day's direction for Martin. 

Objectively, Thursdays were no different from Wednesdays or Fridays or any other day but he'd doomed Thursdays to be the day he called his mum and Thursdays suffered for it. He woke up early, his mum was always in a better mood in the morning, and went over his mental script. 

Hi, Mum. 

Work is good, how are you?

I'm sorry, I'm not trying to bother you. 

Yes, I know, I know. 

My name's Martin, Mum. Remember? 

Exhaustion already gripped him at the thought of doing the whole song and dance yet again, hopefully it'd be over soon. 

He frowned—that sounded like he was hoping she'd die. He wasn't, he wouldn't. His mum loved him, he knew that, she just wasn't well and her patience had already been so thin even before the sickness. She didn't mean to be harsh with him, it just happened. 

Breathing deeply, he hit the number for her care home and felt his heartbeat thunder against his ribs during the gaps between rings. 

"Hello?" came the polite voice of an attendant, "How can I help you?"

"Hi, Janice." he greeted, "I-It's Martin. Blackwood."

The sterile politeness of customer service dropped slightly, "Oh, hello, Martin! Nice to hear from you again!" 

"Yeah, um, hi, I was just trying to, um, check in? If I'm able to." 

There was a pause, "Of course." Janice said, softly. There was a shuffling, Janice's pumps making sharp clicks against the hardwood as she walked further away. For a moment all Martin can hear is the soft ambiance of a care home before the clicking returns, "I'm sorry, love, she...she's busy at the moment. Do you want me to pass on a message, hun?"

The sudden appearance of pet names was enough to tell Martin that perhaps his mother had been a bit more forward on not wanting to speak with him, "No, no, it's okay. Thank you."

"Of course, take care of yourself, sweetie." 

"Yeah."

The line went dead and Martin laid back down. 

He allowed himself three minutes of feeling empty before rising and getting ready for his shift. Though the feeling itself did not agree to such conditions. 

Tim and Sasha greeted him at work, chatting away at him about what they had done the night before—Sasha, a birthday party for a uni friend; Tim, a night at the pub where he had ended up screaming along to  _ Don't Stop Believing  _ with thirty other patrons. Martin told them he'd stayed in the night before.

"You just missed ol' Mike." Tim said, leaning against the checkout desk, "He came in earlier, weird as ever."

"Really? What was he looking for now?" Martin asked, his mood lifting with just this little bit of banter "Spooky book number fifty-four?" 

Sasha snickered, "No, no, he's very into astronomy now. Wiped us out of all our books about space,  _ specifically  _ those about people getting launched out of their stations by accident." 

Tim snorted, "I'm starting to think that we're dangerously close to being accessories for literal murders. At least we've got an alibi." 

"But Tim, that's assuming he doesn't kill us first. Getting rid of loose ends and all that." 

"Completely correct." he smiled, "You would be  _ such  _ a good serial killer, Sash. Have I ever told you that."

"Three times and counting!" she shoved him playfully, "Anyways, w—oh, Christ, speak of the Devil." 

The banal specter of customer service fell over them again as no one other than Mike Crew himself returned through the glass doors, looking just as intense and vaguely threatening as ever. It wasn't like he was actually ever  _ rude  _ to them—honestly every conversation Martin had had with the man had been perfectly normal—it was just that there was something  _ off  _ about him. Off like everything in your flat moved one inch to the left, nothing outwardly wrong but something definitely abnormal. He didn't have the most conventional appearances, no, with his pure white hair and the pale pink fractal scar that partially marred his face but Martin couldn't talk when it came to fitting into conventions in all honesty. 

"Ah, welcome back, Mike!" Tim greeted as if he hadn't called him a murderer just a minute ago. 

Mike Crew waved, "Sorry, I've seem to have forgotten my scarf." he said, miming around his neck where the scar continued, "It's dark purple, has got tassels—"

Sasha interjected, "Little ghost design?" 

"Yes!" 

"I saw it while I was doing stock, I'll go grab it." she made to walk back into the break room but paused, "Wait, Tim, do you mind coming with me? The lost-and-found bin is on the top shelf and I need you to hold the ladder steady." 

"Aye, Madame James." 

She scoffed, "C'mon loser." 

The two of them went off into the back, leaving just Martin alone with Mike who had decided to prop himself up onto the desk. Martin managed a tight-lipped smile. 

"It's my boyfriend's scarf actually." he said after a moment, "He'd have my head if I lost it, he's only got the one." 

"O-Oh?" 

"Hm." he nodded. His pale blue eyes fixed themselves onto Martin, his upper lip curled slightly as if Martin had done something offensive. If  _ anything  _ was offensive it was the amount of cologne the smaller man was wearing, he smelled like a swimming pool or like the moment before lightning strikes, "Interesting." 

"Interesting?" Martin repeated,

"Yeah. Interesting." he jumped over the desk without a care in the world and sat in Tim's favorite spinny chair, Martin's warning got lost in his throat, "Martin, right?" 

"...Yes...?" 

"Tell me, Martin, been a bit lonely lately?" 

He sputtered, was he coming onto him? No, h-he  _ couldn't  _ be, he'd just talked about his boyfriend and he didn't have the face of someone trying to flirt—unless his go-to expression was Creepy Guy. So he must've asked the question for some other insane reason, "E-Excuse me?!" 

Mike began slowly turning in the chair, "I mean nothing by it. Just curious. A  _ normal  _ amount of curious mind you." 

"I—I, uh, it's n-none of your business!" 

He huffed out a laugh, "You know, it is very funny to see someone who associates with the  _ Beholding’s  _ ilk say something 'isn't my business'." 

" _ Huh? _ " he squinted, "What are you tal—"

"And here we" Tim and Sasha returned, holding the scarf out, "...are?" they paused, taking in the odd scene in front of them. Mike smiled as if nothing was abnormal and grabbing the scarf, quickly draping it around his neck. 

"Thanks a million." he said, getting up from the chair and hopping back over the desk, "See you around, Martin. Stay safe." 

He  _ winked _ of all things and stepped outside, relishing in the wind and rain for a breath before walking away, scarf flitting in the breeze. 

“What...was that...?”

“I-I don’t, I don’t know?” Martin stammered, “He just asked me if I was  _ lonely  _ then when I,  _ of course _ , was like ‘what the hell’ he said s-something about me associating with a thing called ‘Beholding’? Then he left!” 

Tim frowned, “Weirdo.” 

Sasha crossed her arms, glaring from behind her glasses, “Are you okay?” 

“I mean,  _ yeah. _ ” 

“I’m really sorry we left you alone with him, he’s probably high off something. Hopefully, he’s off to bother someone else but we can walk you back to your flat after your shift if you’d like.” 

Martin picked at his lips, he'd planned on going straight to the Institute after work, even bringing his gift for the Archivist with him so he wouldn't have to stop off at home, "No, it's fine, I-I have a, um, a  _ date  _ tonight anyways." 

"You sure?" Tim asked, stone-faced, obviously worried as he hadn't taken the golden moment to tease him over his date, "We honestly don't mind Martin." 

"I know! I know, it's no bother. Mike's long gone anyways plus I'm nearly double his height, I'm sure I can take him." 

He sighed, "Okay. If you're sure." 

"I am." he smiled, "Thanks for being so protective of me but I can fend for myself." 

Sasha nodded, "We know that and we trust you, Martin." she nudged him, "Make sure to let us know if that date of yours is a real creep, though."

"Ha, deal." 

☄

The Archivist's door swung open the moment Martin’s foot hit the paper-covered ground of the archives as if it’d been sitting with it’s...ear(?) pressed against the door, waiting for the slightest hint of sound. 

“ _ You came back.”  _ came its voice from a nearby tape recorder.

Martin jumped slightly, he’d never get used to that, “I said I would.”

_ “You said you’d think about it.”  _ it corrected,  _ “No promises, you said.”  _

“Oh, so you want me to leave?” at the slight burst of static from the tape Martin sputtered, “I’m joking, it was a joke.” 

_ “Okay, yes, I-I knew that.”  _

“Liar.” he teased, entering the cramped office and closing the door behind him. 

He could feel its presence right against his back, it was still hiding but it felt...closer, “You’ve brought something.”

“Yeah!” he set the newspaper wrapped parcel on the desk, “It’s for you!” 

“F...For me?” something in the office rustled, “What is it?” 

Martin sat, “Can’t you just  _ Know?” _

“You said not to Know anything about you, I’m honoring that. I-I haven’t Looked at you since you returned home to your flat yesterday.” 

“But you Looked all the way there.”

“...I wanted to make sure you got home safely. It was my own anxieties, apologies.”

He smiled, “Really? Well, um, yeah, n-no worries.” he slipped off his wooly hat, “I’m giving you permission to ‘Look’, just this once. Just about the gift.”

“Okay.” static rose, “It’s the mirror your friend got you. Why?”

“Because you were right. I’m not using it and I figured, hey, give it to something who actually has no clue what it looks like.” he tore into the newspaper, revealing the gold frame and the spotless surface, “Do you want to take a look?” he held the mirror up, no answer came and Martin continued, “I’ll close my eyes, okay? If you don’t want me to see you until you’re ready, that’s okay.” 

True to his word he shut his eyes, holding his free hand over them just for posterity. He kept the closed even as he felt the Archivist draw closer, static whispering in his ears. It just looked at  _ him  _ for a while as if testing how long his patience would last before redirecting its attention to the mirror, its gaze lifting like a physical weight. Martin heard soft buzzing against the glass of the mirror and the Archivist’s mumbling under its breath softly, “That’s me?” 

“Different than what you expected?” 

“I don’t know.” its breath quickened slightly, “I don’t  _ know.”  _

“Archivist?”

“Martin, it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make  _ sense! _ ” it muttered, voice gaining an edge of hysteria, “I should know what I’m supposed to  _ look like  _ I should  _ know!”  _

Martin furrowed his brow, wishing he could open his eyes, “Hey, hey, Archivist, it’s alright.” it didn’t respond, only spiraled further in a sea of ‘should know’ and ‘look like’. He worried his lip, setting the mirror down, “Archivist, listen, c-can you name five things you can, um,”  _ fuck,  _ was it feel or hear first? “five things you can hear?”

“Five things I can…” it groaned, inhaling sharply, “Martin, i-it’s loud, it’s just  _ loud _ .” 

There wasn’t any noise beside its voice, Martin disregarded it quickly, “How about feel? What can you feel?”

“I don’t, I don’t know.”

“What about my jumper?” he stuck his arm out slightly, “Can you feel my jumper?” There was a moment of uncertainty then Martin felt pressure on his arm that sent shivers down his spine.  _ Christ,  _ he wanted to open his eyes. “There we go! Can you describe it?” 

“Acrylic, b-bought at a charity shop several years ago, it had been there for fifteen weeks and two days before you arrived. The woman who had donated it had only done so because it had belonged to her grandfather and after his passing she couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. You’ve passed her three times in this jumper since you’ve bought it and each time she feels as though she’s seen a ghost.” 

_ Sheesh.  _ Martin sighed, “I meant more like describe how it  _ feels. _ ”

“Oh. It’s soft.” 

He snorted out a laugh, “Thanks. Do you need me to keep going? Is it still loud?”

“Y-Yes, yes. This is helping, I think, I think it’s helping”

God, he couldn’t remember the rest. Feeling seemed to work. What else did he have to be felt?

“How about my hands?” he offered them up, palms out and fingers relaxed. Touch came again, quick like it was afraid Martin would snatch it up then another, calmer but still hesitant. The Archivist’s hands were...odd. One fleshy with what felt like an awful burn that wrapped around and small divots; the other felt like TV static, wispy and prickling against Martin’s skin, blazingly hot and oppressively freezing, they were solid but tenuously so. Martin suppressed a shiver, “Can you describe them?”

“They’re nice. Nice a-and human, warm, too. Human hands, careful hands, th-they’re real.”

“So are you.” Martin insisted, “I’m real and I’m here, talking to you. So you’ve got to be real, too.”

“Th-That makes sense.” 

“Yeah!” 

It lifted hands away from his, its gaze fell back on him and lingered. Then all at once disappeared. 

“You can open your eyes.” 

Martin blinked his eyes open, waiting for his vision to readjust. He was seemingly alone again, “Are you alright?” 

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“What? It’s okay, it’s not your fault that you had a, a  _ panic attack. _ ” 

The Archivist groaned but it sounded more like a growl than anything else, “No, Martin, I’m not  _ meant  _ to do  _ that.  _ I’m not meant to  _ panic  _ and I-I’m not meant to  _ know  _ what I look like, it’s all irrelevant. I’m being ridiculous and I apologize that you had to see that.” it paused, “This was a horrible idea. Leave. Now.”

“No.”

“What?”

_ “No.”  _ Martin repeated forcefully, “I’m not about to leave you alone while you go through this, Archivist, and I  _ really  _ don’t care about what you’re ‘meant to do’. You need somebody to talk about  _ this  _ with. I, I won’t push you but I’m here. You aren’t some piece of furniture, you’re  _ allowed  _ to be scared.” 

“Martin, you don’t get it!” it shouted, “This is far beyond whatever you  _ think  _ you understand.”

“Oh, real nice.”

“I mean it. I-I’m not trying to be, be arrogant but what I am is not meant for me to  _ know _ .” __

“Says  _ who?”  _ Martin countered, “Archivist, you get to choose how to live your life.”

Silence fell, nothing more than the hum of some still running generator and the crinkle of files. Then, the soft exhale of static. 

“Martin. I don’t.” 

“What?”

“I didn’t, I have  _ never  _ had a choice in being this. Who would  _ choose  _ to be like this?” it questioned meekly though its voice still crackled with power, “I don’t, I d-don’t quite remember if I was anything before I was  _ this  _ but sometimes it feels like I had to have been. I can’t have always been this, can I? I feel like I can see the outline of who I used to be but then it’s gone. Like smoke. It’s...it’s maddening.” 

Martin wanted to be able to give some sort of physical comfort, urging a tower of horror stories that it was its own person just rang hollow, “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do? To help?” 

A bitten off laugh, “I don’t think there is, you’re only human after all.”

He bit his lip, “What if... _ I  _ gave you a choice?” 

“Martin, it wouldn’t change any―”

“I know it wouldn’t change anything. It’s just a choice for you.”

“...” it lingered, “okay.”

Martin sat up straighter, “Do you want to be like this anymore?” 

_ “What?” _

“Yes or no, do you want to be like this anymore?” 

Something rustled in the stacks again, static pressed against Martin’s ears, “I, I don’t...I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

“Archivist―”

“Martin. Please.” it sighed, “Anything else, please.” 

Reluctantly, he let the subject drop. 

Martin wasn’t exactly sure on how long he stayed, sat atop the Archivist’s desk, idly glancing over the entirely new spread of papers. The conversation just swam along―from a particularly rude barista Martin had encountered weeks back to an incident involving a group of pre-teens who had all passed out the moment the Archivist had manifested a tape recorder. Then drifted to more personal things, Martin admitting that he’d told Tim and Sasha that he was on a date so they wouldn’t suspect anything (that had garnered a full laugh from the Archivist, mangled by distortion but lovely nonetheless); the Archivist recalling a meeting between someone he’d first referred to as the Distortion then resorted to calling Helen that resulted in the two of them getting into a shouting match over what color the word ‘upset’ was (“It’s orange, right?” Martin had said, “THANK YOU.” the Archivist exclaimed). All in all, the Archivist didn’t talk much, it seemed plenty happy to listen to Martin prattle on about his human life and the little intricacies that came with it. It was nice, it almost felt like a real friendship.

“Christ, is it already past 10?” Martin muttered, glancing at his phone for the first time in a while, “I have to get going.”

“You do?” the Archivist asked, sounding almost put out by the relentless concept of time. 

“Sorry, I’ll be back though. Don’t worry.” he stood, stretching his cramped legs, “Maybe I’ll bring a book next time for you. One not about terrible horrors.”

It hemmed, teasingly adding, “One of your poems?” 

“I should’ve never told you that― _ why  _ do you even hate poetry?” 

“It’s a waste of time! All poems are!” it argued, the smile evident in its tone, “I know it. I  _ Know _ it.” 

Martin snorted, “Then why do you even want to read one of mine?”

“Because I want to know what you see in it!” 

“You’ll never know, arse.” he smiled, he rewrapped his scarf around his neck. Sheepishly, he stuck his hands in his pocket, fidgeting with a loose thread, “One more thing, I, um, I’ve been thinking and do you  _ have  _ preferred pronouns? I should’ve asked earlier but I was still kinda wrapping my head around you existing in all honesty.”

That shuffling happened again, the shuffling Martin had visualized as the Archivist rocking on its feet, “I don’t know if I do?”

Martin nodded, at least gender was something he had experience in not knowing about, “Well, you’ve got a few choices. There’s she/her, he/him―like me―or, um, they/them. There’s a lot of other ones you could use, too! I’ve met somebody who used xe/xem pronouns once and xe were probably the coolest person I’ve ever met, hah.”

The Archivist clicked what might’ve been a tongue, “He? A-And they. Yes. I, I think I like those two.” they said, “Is that alright?”

“Yeah! Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be.” Martin snickered, “If you end up not liking it, you can change it. I dub thee a he/they, Archivist.”

He laughed, “Thanks?” he let out a slow breath, “Do you have to go now?

“I should, yeah.” his shoulder fell just a centimeter, “See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow.” they smiled. 

☄

The next day Martin entered the office with a worn copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ in his hands and noticed the mirror hanging proudly on the wall. A small note was tacked onto the glass:  _ That is you.  _

☄

Sasha fell back onto Martin’s couch with a contented sigh, toeing of her shoes with little effort and bending over to place them together at the edge of the sofa. Tim sat right beside her, seizing the moment she was done to lay his body across hers. She groaned good naturedly, “Martin! Hurry up with the popcorn, please; Tim’s turning to liquid!” 

“Did you just rat me out to Dad?” Tim snarked, melting deeper into Sasha’s lap, “And here I was thinking you loved me.”

“Ha!” she laughed, “Stupid, get off of me.” 

“Hm. No, I don’t think so.” 

Martin stepped out of his kitchen, carrying three bowls of popcorn haphazardly, “Kids, I will turn this car around.” he joked in a stern voice, “Now, take your popcorn before I literally drop everything.” 

“Alright, alright.” Tim sat up, taking his own bowl into his hands and resigning to laying on Sasha’s side. Sasha took her’s, carefully picking one kernel from the horde and biting down. 

Martin sat on the loveseat, “Any decision on what movie we’re watching?” 

“ _ Treasure Planet  _ won the vote.”

“As it should.” 

The three of them settled in once Martin got the movie up and running, well, as settled as they could be. Tim and Sasha had something to say to him, that was obvious―had  _ been  _ obvious for the past month they’d been whispering amongst each other while ‘discreetly’ sending glances his way. He’d proposed the movie night not only because it was tradition as of a year ago but to also give them a chance to just spit it out. But when the credits rolled with no confession, Martin decided to go the more direct route. 

“Do you guys want to ask me something?” 

At their faux-confused faces, he groaned. Sometimes he wished he had the Archivist’s ability to just make people  _ talk _ (Compulsion, they’d called it); it was never a pleasant sensation, feeling your mouth move and words tumble out without your control, but it sure did cut to the chase. “Just spit it out guys, I know you do.” 

“Okay, okay.” Tim gestured wildly with his hands, “Fine. It’s nothing crazy but, like, why haven’t you told us about your boyfriend yet?”

_ “What?”  _

“Feel free to tell us to shove off  _ but _ ” Sasha sat up straighter, already in full investigation mode, “you’ve been acting differently for nearly a month now, more smiley and everything? And you mentioned that date a while ago, so we kind of put two and two together...so, new boyfriend. I mean, it’d explain where you’ve been going after work.”

“And those gifts!” Tim added, “You asked me if we still had  _ Hamlet _ in stock and I  _ know  _ you’d never buy that for yourself because you don’t like Shakespeare!”

(“How do you not like  _ theatre?!”  _

“How do you like theatre but not poetry?!”) 

Martin couldn’t even appreciate that his friends paid attention to him so closely as all his brain power was currently being used to try and make up a reasonable excuse. If he just up and admitted that he’d actually become quite good friends with the Archivist in the last month despite their concerns it’d be a shitstorm but he had no other good excuse in mind so― “I, uh, I didn’t want to jinx it.” 

Hey, if it ain’t broke. 

“Knew it!” Tim cheered, “Alright, alright, what’s his name?”

“A-Alex. Yeah. It’s Alex.” 

Sasha beamed, “So happy for you, Martin! How’d you two meet? Where’s he work?” 

“We just ran into each other really!” he picked at his lips, “T-Total accident and he works in, um, in”  _ goddamn it _ , “archiving.” 

“Tch, course, hah. Do you have a picture of him?” 

Tim smirked, “Gotta make sure he’s good enough for our, Martin.” 

Sweat beaded on his brow, the only picture he had in the Archivist’s office was a photo he’d taken once he realized that they had a habit of doodling in the margins of their statements. Little drawings of cats and eyes in the borders and even what appeared to be a drawing of Martin, wooly hat and all; it was nice. 

“We don’t have any photos together, actually. Sorry to, um, disappoint.” 

“No need. We’ll meet him at some point.” Tim insisted, he threw back his head in an overdramatic wail, “Damn! If Martin’s taken then that means we  _ have  _ to be endgame Sasha.”

She rolled her eyes, “No, Tim.” 

“But our adoring fans!” 

“Who? Martin?”

“I do adore you guys but I’m staying far away from this.” Martin laughed. 

Tim lamented, “Am I the only one who cares about this storyline?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. here's how mike/oliver can still win
> 
> also!! my post sched for this will prolly be wednesdays and saturdays so ill see yall saturday for a fun time!!


	4. Chapter 4

“Martin.” 

The serious tone in the Archivist’s voice made him pause, he did have a tendency to intone but never right after Martin’s arrived. 

“Archivist.” he replied, in an identical tone, “Is something up?”

A shifting, “No, nothing’s ‘up’, I, hm, Martin, do you trust me?” 

Martin raised an eyebrow, “Yes? What’s this about?”

“I just, I―” they inhaled slowly, “I wanted to let you, you  _ see  _ me and I don’t know how upsetting my appearance will be for you. I-I’m worried.” 

They’d worked the smallest amount on actually  _ talking  _ about their feelings rather than being a prick until somebody else snapped at them and Martin couldn’t help but smile at him openly describing how he was feeling. He sat on the desk, “Don’t worry. I already know you won’t look ‘human’ if that’s what you’re worried about. You won’t scare me off.” 

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it’ll be you.” Martin said simply, the Archivist swallowed. 

“Okay.” he breathed out, “Can you, can you close your eyes until I tell you to open them?” 

Martin complied, “They’re closed.” he called out even though he knew the Archivist could see him. 

He heard things move and rearrange, be shoved aside and replaced, then felt what he recognized as the Archivist’s hands―burned flesh and staticky wisps. They curled around Martin’s own, “You can open them.” 

He excitedly opened his eyes, all his compliments and thoughts vacating his mind once he actually  _ saw  _ the Archivist. At least six eyes stared back at him, five placed bursting in a wispy sea of black static and one placed in a normal position on a crop of brown skin and pale pockmarks, all six an unnatural green with torn apart pupils. They had long, wavy dark hair with silver shot through it; it fell over his face partially, covering a good portion of his eyes. 

Their skin was segmented, most of their body that shifting wispiness but small portions of it still having the look and feel of real human skin, scarred and imperfect. His right hand flexed in Martin’s, he had been right about the burn―it curled around in a strange pattern and ate into the flesh. Their left was plain static, slightly clawed but held Martin exceedingly gently, proving the Archivist was aware of the danger. Their body glitched slightly, colors dancing around the edge of his form like he’d been cut out of a magazine and hastily pasted in. An image of those angels Martin had seen so many times back when his mum had forced him to go to church came to mind as he felt the eyes track him. Funnily enough, the Archivist wasn’t cloaked in red robes or donned with a halo―he wore a threadbare cardigan, a dark green sweater underneath it with plaid trousers of all things.

“Martin?” 

He looked up, all of their eyes looked back. 

Pain exploded behind Martin’s eyes, a crawling sort of pain that radiated throughout his body and turned his vision snowy. Like looking into the sun or staring dead at a social eclipse, ethereally painful and damned rewarding. Pressure tripled in his head, Martin hissed,  _ “Shit!”  _

The Archivist tensed, dropping his hands, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay, it’s just...a lot to take in I think. The eye contact might’ve pushed it a bit too far for me.”

They narrowed their eyes then stared at the space right behind Martin, “No eye contact for now. Got it.” nervously, they tucked a piece of hair behind their ear, “ **_What do you think?_ ** **”**

“You’re amazing.” the words fell out before Martin could keep them in, he bit his tongue, “Archivist!”

His eyes widened, it made Martin’s headache worsen, “Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m nervous, I suppose. But t-thank you, anyways.” the pain faded just slightly, their hands rapped anxiously against their thigh, “You’re not scared. Right?” 

“Not really? A little caught off guard maybe,” he said, “but how are you talking? You’ve kind of got an eye where your...mouth should be.” 

“I don’t really question it.” actually  _ seeing  _ their expressions was a refreshing change, even without a mouth Martin could pick out a sheepish smile by the way the corner of their eyes crinkled, “Small blessings or dream logic, I suppose.” he rolled his shoulders back, fussing with the seam of his cardigan, “I thought about what you asked a few weeks ago.”

Martin furrowed his brow, “Which was…?”

“You asked if I wanted to keep being  _ this.  _ Keep being trapped in this office, scared of my own reflection. And the answer is no.” they said, speaking with their hands, “The answer’s no, Martin! I-I’m making a choice and that choice is that I, I want to be a person. I want to be a real  _ person _ , not some scary story trapped in some long forgotten altar, I want to be real.” 

He blinked, “W-Wow! Th-That’s amazing, Archivist!” they brightened, flapping their hands excitedly, “Good for you!” 

They brushed a hand through their black-and-silver hair, bouncing slightly where they were sitting, “Martin, I, I understand that this is a lot for me to ask of you but would you mind...helping me with this? I-I can Know the basics about  _ being  _ a person but that doesn’t mean I understand it and with so much of myself being dedicated to fear, I doubt I’d be able to face a human being without wanting to...to break them.”

The Archivist balled his fists into his sweater and though they still looked away from Martin, he could still catch the glint of hunger in their eyes, “I’m a human being, Archivist.” Martin said slowly, tamping down on the animal part of his brain that called for him to run, “You’ve been doing just fine with me. Haven’t broken me yet.”

“You’re different.” he said quickly, “Special. To me.” 

Martin smiled softly, “I’m really not. But yes, I’ll help you.” he slid off the desk, settling onto the floor so they faced each other at eye level (they were much shorter than him, Martin noticed with a snort), “So, what now? Is there a, a  _ curse  _ to break or...?” 

He shook his head, “No, no, I’m not cursed, it’s just been easier for me to exist in the archives. I stay fed and it pleases my patron, the Archivist in the archives.” Subtly, Martin glanced around the office. There was no sign of food and Martin was quite positive that he’d never seen them eat before, he noted curiously. Another strike of curiosity came with the mention of their ‘patron’ but now wasn’t the time to be asking many questions about less important matters, “There are others similar to me that are able to live outside of their domains, I should be able to. Though, they are not so intrinsically tied to their patrons as I am. I-It might destroy me.” 

“Can’t you Know?” 

They waved him off, “An eye cannot see within itself.” they said, as if that was even close to an explanation, “All I’d accomplish is hurting myself.” 

Martin worried his lip, breathing out a huff, “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Precisely.” 

“Can’t know until you try, right?” 

He laughed, “I’d rather not metaphysically fall apart in front of you, Martin.” they said bluntly, “I’m already pushing it as it is.” 

Martin blinked, “Wait, hold on, do you mean being like this” he gestured to their form, “is hurting you?” 

“No, sorry, I, I worded that wrong. It doesn’t  _ hurt _ exactly. It’s more like, like holding my breath.” he said, “I’m not exactly corporeal at the best of times so actively  _ choosing  _ to be like this feels a bit like wearing clothes that are a bit too tight, like how your aunt used to give you too-small shirts every holiday to the point where it almost felt like a vague jab at you.” 

“Archivist―” Martin warned, they sighed, 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Being like this takes concentration, the noise and the Knowing slip through much easier.” at his concerned expression they visually backtracked, “I  _ am  _ happy to be like this with you, Martin, the discomfort is secondary. Unimportant. Being a person means having a body, so I have a body. Don’t quite know where to go next.” 

“How about a name?” Martin offered, “Don’t get me wrong, ‘the Archivist’ is a perfectly nice  _ title  _ but it’s not a name.” 

They smoothed down their sweater, eyes squinting in thought (Martin almost dared to call it  _ cute _ , especially with the way their hands tapped against the fabric, but banished the thought quickly), “A name. Okay, yes, a name. You chose your name, yes? You have experience with this, what do you have in mind?” 

His eyebrows quirked upwards, the Archivist  _ had  _ seemed particularly invested in his story about choosing his name―the endless search of baby name websites and research of names whose meanings  _ meshed  _ with him only for him to be mistaken for somebody named Martin at a supermarket by some woman who would never know that she named him. 

“Well, what do you want?” he asked, “Something masculine or feminine, maybe even androgynous?

He shrugged, “I have no idea.” 

For a moment he almost suggested the name Alex, then nearly slapped himself for the moment of projection. Another name came to mind, one he’d seen scribbled in the corner of one of their files a week or two back, “How about Jonathan?” 

“Jonathan.” he repeated, “Jo-nath-an. Jon...athan…Jonathan” the corners of their eyes crinkled, “I like it. Yes, I like that one. Jonathan.” he made eye contact, Martin weathered through the dizzying effect just to savor the delight in their eyes, “My name is Jonathan! Hello, Martin, I’m Jonathan.” they offered their hand, Martin happily shook it. 

“Nice to meet you, Jonathan.” Martin beamed, their excitement infectious, “Ooh! Maybe you could have a nickname, too, like Jonny or something like that.”

They squinted, “Not that.”

“Jon, then?”

“Much better.” 

“Noted.” Martin nodded, “What now?” 

He bounced his leg up and down rapidly, hands moving in the same fashion, “Now, well, now, I…” his eyes glazed over faintly, movements slowing to a stop. Static crackled just vaguely, “I’m going to read a statement. Can you...behind you, the one I need is behind you.” 

“You alright?”

“Yes. It’s behind you.” 

Understanding that pushing more wouldn’t get him anywhere, Martin twisted to grab a yellowed collection of papers that sat, folded, on a dust-covered chair, “This one?” he turned back around to see the Archivist―Jonathan―holding a tape recorder with that glint of hunger again. They all but snatched it out of his hands, they held the papers delicately. 

“Statement of Alana Rosewood regarding her own vanishing. Original statement given December 18 th  2012\. Recording by the Archivist, January 13 th  2016\. Statement begins.” he focused intensely on the scribbled words, “I can see you. Know that I can see you, through the snow and the frost, I  _ can  _ see you…” 

Martin sat in silence for the near half hour it took for them to finish reading out some poor woman’s terrifying situation―her slowly being forgotten by everybody she knows, watching as they move on without her as if she never existed while she fights to be freed from some endless blizzard. It sounds like hell, it probably  _ is  _ hell. Jon doesn’t blink once, eyes completely unseeing but reading the words with intense theatrics, taking on the light, fragile tone of a terrified woman in their voice. Martin can almost feel the light brush of snow falling onto his jumper. 

“Statement ends.” they said finally, slumping forwards like a puppet with its strings cut. Martin catched them, holding them against his chest until they finally stirred back in consciousness, he released them. They groggily blinked all six eyes, “Hi?”

“Hey. Easy now.” he helped them back into a more stable position, they still held a tight grip on Martin’s jumper like he would fade into snow like poor Alana, “Back with me?”

They groaned, “Yes, yes.” they muttered, “I-I apologize, I hadn’t meant to...I was trying to hold out, I suppose. Typically it doesn’t feel so  _ urgent. _ ” they listed forwards, “Good lord.” 

Martin held their shoulders firmly, “Do you need some...water? You look like you’re about to keel over.” 

“Martin,” he deadpanned, “How exactly would I  _ drink  _ the water?”

“Oh, piss off, prick.” he rolled his eyes, the corners of Jonathan’s eyes crinkled, “I don’t even have any, I was just trying to help.”

“And I appreciate that.” he ran a hand through his hair, the black-and-silver shining in the dim yellow light, Martin suddenly got the thought that his hair must be shockingly soft, “I am feeling better for what it’s worth.” at Martin’s concerned expression they held up placating hands, Martin caught a glimpse of a dark eye-shaped glyph in the palm of their burned hands, “Martin, I’m fine, I assure you. H-How was your day, you had your night with your friends yesterday, yes? How was it?” 

Martin knew when he was being herded away from worrying, he sighed, “Yeah, it, it was fun. But I kind of…” he fluttered his hands around, “invented a boyfriend to cover my ass about coming here.” 

“ _ What?”  _ they snorted, “Martin, what?” 

“Shut up, I panicked!” he exclaimed, shoving them, “They asked about where he worked and I said  _ archiving!”  _

They laughed, “ _ Archiving?”  _

“A-And they asked for a picture and I just said I didn’t have one! Who dates somebody for a month and has no pictures together?!” 

Jon shrugged, “We don’t have any pictures together.” 

“Well, you didn’t exactly have a body until forty-minutes ago. Not that many chances for photo-ops.” 

“Ah. For the best probably, I tend to not agree with digital technology. I doubt I’d even show up in your picture.” 

“Wait. Really?”

He held up the tape recorder, the tape still rolling in its casing, “These are the only things that can record my voice, I suspect it’d be cumbersome if they didn’t have the habit of manifesting around me at random times.” he eyed the tape, “Though they never know when something  _ isn’t their business. _ ” the tape clicked off by itself, almost embarrassed. “Apologies, keep talking about your fake partner.” 

“Excuse me, Alex is very real.” 

He snorted, “ _ Alex? _ Where’d you get that from?” 

“Well, I couldn’t exactly admit you were my boyfriend, could I?!” 

Martin nearly bit off his tongue once he realized what he’d said― _ admit?  _ Why had he said  _ admit!?  _ They were friends, that was it and that was all. And yes, maybe he looked forward to these meetings more than anything else and yes, he could listen to their rambles and rants on whatever special subject had caught their attention for hours, and yes, their eyes were gorgeous and their hands looked like they’d fit so perfectly in his and,  _ Christ,  _ their voice and― 

No, no, no, moving away from that. 

Martin’s face was assuredly bright red, he coughed, “M-My fake boyfriend, of course.” 

“Naturally.” Jon said, voice not giving away whether or not he’d noticed Martin’s little crisis, “Will be a bit odd when you introduce me to them as Jonathan, though.” 

_ When  _ he introduces him. Half of a promise that one day these two parts of his life will meet―Tim, Sasha, and Jon. Movie nights where all four of them are squished onto Martin’s worn couch, Tim and Sasha bantering while Jon goes off on a semi-lecture about how the movie was made and whatever terrible occurrence the director’s second cousin had bared witness to and Martin listens in rapt interest. He smiled, “I think it’ll turn out alright.” 

☄

Eventually, the time came again. Their conversation winded down and Martin stood, shaking out stiff muscles and saying his goodbyes. 

“Wait!” Jon stood also, leaving a faint image of himself lingering where he had been sitting before like a shoddy double exposure, “Let me walk you out.” 

Surprised, Martin took a step back (and God, they really were almost a full foot apart in height), “Oh! Course, um, l-lead the way. Have you...been out of this room before?”

“If I have I don’t remember.” 

“Will you be okay?” 

“Probably?” 

“Okay, good enough.”

Gingerly, Martin pushed the door open, letting in a flood of cool, stale air. He stepped out first followed quietly by Jon, he looked around curiously, “Good lord, it’s a mess out here.” 

Martin started walking, “This isn’t you?” 

“Of course not.” he trailed behind him, carefully avoiding stepping on the statements, “If I had to guess, it’d probably be Helen’s doing. Chaos is her nature and I do not always keep an eye on her―makes me dizzy.” 

“You talk about this Helen a lot.” Martin said, not at all jealous, “Will I ever get the chance to meet her?”

“Hopefully not.” he replied simply, making his way up the stairs, “Have I ever told you to watch out for yellow...” their words quieted once they stepped back into the upstairs, eyes flicking around the burned out shell, “I haven’t, I haven’t been up here in decades. It’s...it’s in ruin.”

Their voice was uncharacteristically quiet as it echoed around the room. Martin glanced around, trying to imagine what it had looked like before, “You burned this place down, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” 

Their gaze shifted to the portrait of Jonah Magnus for just a moment before they muttered, “I don’t want to talk about it, Martin. I had to, that’s all I want to say.” 

Martin nodded, “Yeah, course. Whenever you’re ready.”

Relief was visible on their face, “Thank you.”

The two of them stopped again right at the threshold, staring at each other silently. Late night breeze rustling their hair 

“Well,” Martin croaked, “t-this is me.” 

“Yes. Right, I, um,” he shifted on his feet, tucking his hair behind his ear (which was  _ triple-pierced  _ ( _ fucking hell _ _)_ ), “Martin―” 

“Can I give you a hug?” 

Their eyes went wide, pain twinged in the back of Martin’s eyes, “I-I think I’d like that.”

He opened his arms, Jon delicately inserted himself in them; he was cold, almost worryingly so, even with their cardigan and the sweater. Martin curled his arms around him, his hair tickling Martin’s chin. He felt their hands hold tightly onto Martin’s coat, as if this would be the last time they’d ever see him, they even trembled, just slightly. He wondered how long it’d been since they’d been so close to another person. They pulled apart. Eventually. Maybe lingering a bit more than necessary. 

“See you tomorrow?” they asked. 

“See you tomorrow.” he answered. 

Martin stepped outside, back into reality. He waved weakly which Jon mirrored from inside. 

Neither of them moved for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the eye thinking its finally done dealing with fruits (derogatory) now that elias and gertrude are gone: :)   
> martin: h  
> jon: martin <3333333333333333  
> the eye: :(


	5. Chapter 5

It was Thursday again. Naturally. 

He’d almost forgotten that his life wasn’t just spending time with his mates while secretly maintaining a relationship with somebody he’d come to really...care for. No, he wasn’t lucky enough for that. His life was holding his breath between Thursdays, with stuff in between. 

The script ran circles in his head as he dialed the number, breathing out the formalities with the saccharine-voiced nurse before she went to go check on his mum. He laid the phone on his chest, trying to time his breaths to the soft sighs of the machines beyond the receiver. 

“Ah, looks like she’s open to talk to you!” the nurse said sweetly. Martin all at once knew she must be new―the others never said it like it was good news. He stammered out a thanks and the nurse walked the phone over into a much more silent room. 

“Here you are, Ms. Blackwood!” there was a rustle and then the low, weak voice Martin expected. 

“Martin.”

Good of a start as any, sometimes she didn’t even bother using his actual name. He swallowed, “H-Hi, Mum. Just calling to check on you!” 

“I’m fine.” she said brusquely, “You don’t have to keep calling, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

 _Well, then why are you in a care home?_ He didn’t say. 

“I know, I know, I just _worry_ , you know.”

“You’ve always worried too much―it’s smothering. Nobody likes to be smothered, Martin.” 

He stifled a sigh, “How, how has your week been?” 

There was a pause though her eye roll was almost audible, “I have other things I should be doing.” _No, you don’t, all you’re doing is waiting to die,_ “Don’t you have somebody else to bother? You call every week.” 

“You know _some_ people talk to their mothers every day.” he snapped, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hm.” 

Silence floated between them, venomous and full. 

“Well, um, goodbye, Mum. I-I’ll call next week, okay?” 

“Fine.” 

Martin grinded his teeth, there was no winning―call every week, she feels smother; don’t call every week, she moans to the nurses about how awful her son is. He swallowed back the anger, she was still his mum and that had to mean something. 

“Love you.” he murmured. 

A click of the tongue, “Yeah.”

The line went dead. Martin was jealous of it. 

He let himself sink deeper into his bed, pulling the covers over his head and relishing in the darkness. It wasn’t even raining today, there was no indulgence in this sadness, it was just sadness. Plain and unpoetic. Martin let out a low groan that threatened to become a sob if he let it go a moment longer. There was no reason to get up today, he wasn’t scheduled for work and both Tim and Sasha had made it sure that they were going to be busy. So there was no reason to leave the bed and place his part as the persistent bother in each person’s lives.

(Distantly, there was the faint smell of something completely out of place in his small flat. Salt water. Salt water turning to fog against a beach.) 

There was always Jon, though. A weak smile spread across his flushed face at the thought of them, which was probably a bad sign. He didn’t want to talk, he certainly didn’t have it in him to talk, but having a full nap on the little cot shoved in the corner of their office sounded much better than sleeping alone. Plus, he always felt better around him despite the way eye contact with him felt like shining a light directly into his corneas. 

Martin was up before he fully registered he’d made a decision. Forgoing the usual steps he took to at least look presentable to just shove on his ratty trainers and make his way to the archives. 

He knew the route by heart now, barely even needing to look up to know where he was. Knowing once he reached the gravel mixed with the grass that he’d reached the Institute. He made his way to the front, stopping cold in his tracks at the sight of something unexpected. 

A door. A yellow door with a brass handle that stuck out horribly from the classical architecture. 

Martin blinked, the door certainly hadn’t been there during his last visit and it didn’t seem like Jon to do some DIY in his free time. He took a tentative step forwards, the door creaked open slightly. 

“Don’t you know it’s polite to knock?” came a honey-sweet voice that felt like nails on a chalkboard in Martin’s ears, a hand curled around the door. It was very, _very_ wrong. “Where are your manners, Martin!” 

“...What?” 

The door laughed, it doubled and looped over itself horribly, “Oh, you are funny! I almost see what it sees in you!” 

Martin squared his shoulders, “O-Okay, stop, stop _playing_ and tell me what you’ve done with Jon. I’ve got a, a _knife_ and―”

“No, you don’t!” came its reply, “It’d be very funny if you did, though. I’m _very_ curious to see how much of me you’d be able to carve off.” the door pushed open fully, there in the doorway stood a woman (?)―unnaturally stretched out, Black with a mane of oil slick curls, odd eyes, a smile that was a touch _too_ big, and hands with fingers like foot-long knives, “And don’t you worry about your ‘ _Jonathan_ ’, I do not wish to kill the Archivist. I’m one of the very few like us who doesn’t. We’re _very_ good friends, actually! And I _very rarely_ kill my friends.” 

He racked his brain, Jon had thrown around a host of names during their time together (Annabelle, Simon, Peter, Elias, Agnes, Gertrude, Jude, Oliver, Michael, etc, etc, etc) and one of them _had_ to be this... _woman’s_ name. He finally came up with one name that stood out from the others, “Helen?” 

Helen grinned, her smile most definitely going off of her face, “Ah, so he does talk about me!” she preened, “All good things, I hope?” 

“Um…sure?” 

Her smile turns predatory, teeth a bit sharper than they’d been just a second ago, “The Archivist has told me quite a bit about you, it cares about you. More than I expected.” 

“Really?” he asked, voice maybe a smidge too high, “Did, did he _tell_ you that, I mean like obviously I care about him but, um,” he shook his head, “no, nevermind. _Why_ are you here?” 

“Because you confuse me and confusion is my nature.” her body moved unnaturally, like there were simultaneously too many and not enough bones, “Because I don’t think you’re stupid and yet here you are, at a monster’s doorstep.” 

He huffed, “I’m not scared of you.”

“Oh, Martin, I’m not talking about myself.” she purred, leaning against the doorframe, “I know the Archivist puts on quite a show but you do know it isn’t anything _remotely_ like you, it’s barely even like me. It is the right hand of its God, the mouthpiece of all terror and you are here trying to make it fit into a little human body. It’s _very_ funny, really.” 

_You’re always bothering people, Martin._

“I-I, I’m not _forcing_ them to do anything, they said they _want_ to be a person.” he argued, Helen’s smile only grew, “It’s their decision.” 

She laughed, ear-splitting and echoing, “Do you honestly believe that? Good God and here I was thinking _I_ toyed with my meals. Martin, dear, it is not capable of making decisions. Everything it does is just a way to feed the Eye, you must have a story in you somewhere―one it wants _badly_. One that it thinks is worth putting on this whole corporeal façade and with how deeply its little costume has been marked by the Web?” Helen sighed as though Martin understood half of the words she said, “Martin, I weep for you, really. It’s going to rip you apart like it did that poor ghost hunter.” 

_Melanie._ Martin gasped, _“What?!_ Did he...h-he didn’t―” 

“Who knows!” she grinned, “I didn’t stay to watch very long, as fun as it is to see it metaphysically explode somebody it does get rather messy.” she lolled her head, sick satisfaction radiating from her, “Say. Why don’t you ask ‘Jonathan’ yourself. Holding it in my hallways makes me sick anyways.” 

Right on que, Jon’s voice came from inside, harsh and angry, _“Helen!”_

“Ooh, Dad’s angry.” she smirked, “See you again, Martin.”

And just like that she was gone, leaving the empty door frame and Jon who froze in his steps. He groaned, eyes glowing just a hair brighter, “She always― _argh!_ Goddammit!” he walked up to the threshold, wringing his hands “Martin, I-I’m so sorry. She opened a door beneath me and dropped me in her hallways, I didn’t know she was trying to corner you like that. She didn’t hurt you right? Let, let me see.” 

Martin hesitated then slowly stepped over the threshold, Jon looked over him then sighed with relief, “Okay, y-y-you seem fine.” he threw his arms around him, holding onto him with a grip that was suddenly so much more threatening than before, “Do, do you _f-feel_ fine?”

He stepped back, Jon looked up worriedly, “Jon, did, did somebody else come by here while I was gone? A ghost hunter?” 

“What?” they blinked like camera shutter, “Maybe? People do still visit here fairly often, some of them may be ghost hunters, I don’t care to check.” 

“Helen, she said you...you _hurt_ a ghost hunter.” they looked away for a second, 

“I may have, I don’t, I―”

“Either you did or you didn’t, Jon!” they took a step back, fidgeting with their hands. Martin continued, “Somebody around the same height as you, w-with blue in her hair, shaved on the side, Chinese? Probably holding a camera?” 

He paled significantly, “I…” they pulled at the hem of their cardigan, “I didn’t know you knew her. I promise I, I wouldn’t have done it if I had known.” 

“That’s not the point! Helen said you _ripped her apart_.” 

“That is a major over exaggeration!” 

“Then what _did_ you do!?” 

“I…” they bounced on their leg, still wearing the same outfit that they’d worn a few days back, “I panicked. She got into my office, I don’t know _how_ I didn’t notice but I thought she was you so I turned around and she was just standing there. Filming me. Talking into her little microphone. And I panicked.” 

Martin crossed his arms, “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“I, I had to say something to make her leave. I Looked and...her father died a few years ago.” 

“Yeah?” he vaguely remembered Sasha mentioning having to go to a funeral with Melanie, something about Melanie’s father and a care home.

Jon spoke, “She’d been told it had been smoke inhalation during a fire, painless. It wasn’t, it hadn’t been. ” they pulled at their cardigan, “So I showed her what really happened.” 

_“Showed her?”_

“I...I put the image directly in her brain, her father was taken by the Crawling Rot, hollowed out really. Suffered to the very end.”

“Stop! Stop, just, _stop_ talking.” Martin snapped, Jon nodded, still refusing to meet his eyes, “That’s, that’s _horrible_ . That’s absolutely horrible. I-I have to go check on her― she is _alive_ , right?” 

Jon’s eyes widened, “Yes! O-Of course. She just ran off afterwards, her and her friend.” 

“So Georgie was there, too. Great.” Martin groaned, “You didn’t do anything to her, did you?”

“N-No, I couldn’t have even if I wanted to―which I didn't want to. For whatever reason, the fear just wasn’t there.” 

“The...God, nevermind.” he bit off, “Goodbye, Jon.” 

He turned to leave, stopped short once Jon grabbed his sleeve, their clawed hand holding on just a hair too tight, “Martin, when ar-are you coming back?”

“I don’t know, Jon.” he said honestly, trying to bury the concern on his face at how their shoulders immediately drooped, “Helen, she, she said a lot of stuff that I’m going to need to think about, okay?”

They responded quickly, “Don’t listen to her! It’s in her nature to lie, she wasn’t made to tell the truth,” 

“She was right about you hurting Melanie. And she knows you, she _obviously_ knows you in a way I don’t. I just need to think about things.” 

They looked ready to argue again but instead stared down to the tiles, “I understand. Take your time but not, not _too_ long, alright? I found a, a volume of poetry tucked away in the archives that I’m rather looking forward to sharing with you. W-W-When you come back.” 

_It’s a trick,_ a voice in Martin’s head whispered that sounded too much like Helen and too much like himself, _another layer to the disguise._ Not trusting his ability to respond, Martin nodded and stepped silently back into the open air. 

☄

Finding Melanie’s number was easy enough, quick text to Sasha and a lie about ‘finding something weird about the Institute’ (which honestly wasn’t that much of a lie) had ended up with him pacing circles around his flat, waiting for Melanie to pick up. The click of the receiver might as well have been a gunshot. 

“Hello?” Melanie’s voice answered or what he thought was Melanie’s voice from the few episodes of Ghost Hunt UK he’d seen, “Who is this?”

“Hi! Uh, um, good morning, yeah. This is Martin Blackwood? Sasha’s friend?”

“Oh!” she didn’t sound any more thrilled at being contacted by him, “Yeah, yeah, she’s mentioned you once or twice. You both work at that bookshop near Chiswick?”

“That’s me!” he laughed awkwardly, “Hi.”

“...Hi. Why are you calling me?”

“Right, well, I-I...I heard you had a sort of _incident_ at the Magnus Institute? The one Sasha’s told you about.”

He could hear a breath being sucked in, Melanie’s voice returned with a hard edge, “You could say that.”

“I just wanted to see if you were alright. What he did to you was _horrible_ , it had to have been.”

She sighed, “Yeah, it was...wait, how do you even know about this? I haven’t, I haven’t _told_ anyone about it! Georgie had to pull out what happened from my damned teeth.” 

_Right._ He probably should’ve seen this coming. A million different answers ran through his head but he found himself honestly too tired for lying, “This is going to sound absolutely insane.”

“Try me.”

“I’m sort of...friends with who did that to you.”

 _“What?”_ he could hear her sit up straight, “The thing with the eyes and the, the _static? You’re_ friends with it?!” 

“It’s complicated.” he insisted, “I go down to, I don’t know, just be there with him pretty often. Up until two weeks ago they didn’t even have a _body_ , there’s just a lot going on. But trust me, I-I didn’t know they would do that to you, I wouldn’t have let it happen.” 

She scoffed, “Bit late for that.”

“I know a-and I’m really sorry. He said he’d panicked when you got into his office and just went with something he knew would make you leave.” Martin explained, “It doesn’t make it any better though.” 

“It doesn’t.” a pause, “Do Tim and Sasha know about your little friend? ‘Cause from what Sasha told me, you three were supposed to leave that fucking basement alone.” 

Martin breathed, “They don’t. Tim would freak if he knew and Sasha―honestly, Sasha would probably be jealous that _she_ wasn’t a monster’s best bud. She’d probably be fine about it but you know, you tell one of them, you’ve basically told both of them.” 

To his surprise Melanie laughed, “So let me get this straight, for two months now you’ve been going _alone_ to a creepy empty basement to go make friendship bracelets with some eye monster.” 

“Basically.” 

“That’s very stupid. Like _majorly_ stupid.”

“So I’ve been told.” he dragged a hand down his face, “Practically got told off by a _different_ monster about how Jon’s gonna eat my face or something earlier.”

“Jon?”

“Oh, um, we decided his name was Jonathan. Jon for short.” 

She snorted, “The eye monster is named _Jon?_ No points for creativity, I guess.” 

“Thanks for the feedback, I guess.” Martin sat finally on his couch, “Honestly, Melanie, are you okay?” 

“I don’t know.” she admitted, “I cried my eyes out when it happened, probably gonna cry tonight over it but it’s not like I can change anything. I talked about it with Georgie, she always helps, the saint she is. You ever met her, my Georgie?”

“Ah, no.” 

She clicked her tongue, “You should, she runs a podcast about ghosts and stuff―she’d probably die to talk to somebody who’s BFFs with a monster. You should come over sometime.”

He stammered, “R-Really? Um, yeah, that sounds fun!”

“Sick. I should ask though―are you allergic to cats?”

“...No?”

“Good, Georgie’s got this big orange cat. And he’s a crybaby, so if we had to put him away he’d throw a fit.” she moved away from the phone, “Yeah, I’m talking about you! Little monster.” she returned, “He’s a terrible son.” 

Martin snickered, “He doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s all an act. So, our place next Friday? Does that sound good?” Melanie suggested, “You, me, Georgie―a good bitch-fest about prick monsters.” 

“He isn’t―” he sighed, “no, no, he totally is. Yeah, Friday sounds great.”

“Brill, text you our flat number in a mo’.”

“Y-Yeah, cool, I’ll, um, I’ll be looking out for it.” 

He heard another voice call to Melanie over the receiver, most likely her Georgie, “Gotta go. Stay safe and _away_ from creepy monsters if you can manage that.”

“Hah.” he nodded, “You too.” 

☄

For the first time Martin was thankful for the hectic nature of the bookshop―the nonstop rush of people talking and asking and buying and arguing was a welcome distraction from the myriad of things he was trying to ignore. No time to consider the complexities and questions of a relationship when Ms. Perkins was screaming at him for a James Patterson book that _surely_ did not exist. 

Most people tended to assume working in a bookshop was all sharing tea while debating classics while violins played a symphony; but it was more often than not running from shelf to shelf and keeping caustic comments to himself. It was nice, having completely normal worries, he’d barely noticed it’d been a whole week since he’d seen Jon until Sasha had commented that she’d found the copy of _Much Ado About Nothing_ he’d been looking for. 

(He’d still taken the copy home, leaving it on the table right by the door) 

He only got a moment to breathe during his break, dropping into the most secluded spot he knew in the whole store. Sitting with Tim and Sasha during breaks had suddenly become too much of a task with the knowledge that he’d ignored them and that he’d gotten Melanie attacked. Being alone was easier, much easier. He didn’t need to answer to anybody or make small talk, the only thing necessary was quiet and even at its busiest, the shop had an abundance of quiet. It was gentle in a way not many things were. 

And of course it couldn’t last forever. 

“Ah, shame, it is him.” 

Martin looked up to see none other than Mike Crew leaning against a bookshelf accompanied with a tall man dressed in all black who wore the scarf the former had forgotten last time. 

He groaned, not equipped to deal with whatever strange bullshit he was about to endure, “Hello, Mike and…” 

“Oliver.” the other introduced, flashing bright white teeth. He stuck out his hand and Martin shook it, barely hiding his wince at how cold and clammy the man’s skin was. 

“Hi, what, um, what brings you here?” _how the hell did you find me?_ He didn’t ask. He’d purposely sat himself where they kept their thickest books on algebra, where he’d only even seen two people venture. 

Mike playfully elbowed his partner, “Making him get out more, mostly. Figured I’d pay this place a visit, then all the fog and then you.” 

“The...what?” 

“Ignore him.” Oliver interrupted good-naturedly, “Are you feeling alright, Martin? It _is_ Martin, correct?” 

“Yeah, it is.” he stood, towering over Mike as usual and about the same height as Oliver, “A-And I’m fine? Why do you...ask?” 

“You just seemed” he weighed his words, “Lonely.” 

Indignation flared in his chest, what was _with_ these two and asking him if he was lonely? “That’s not really any of your business!” 

“I understand that.” Oliver nodded, he waved his hand which had strange dark lines running along the tendons that disappeared under his jacket sleeve, “Not everybody likes to talk about their affinities, we’re not all like the People’s Church or the Lightless Flame. Thankfully.”

Mike snickered, “Oi, no bad-mouthing Jude.”

“I’m not! I’m just bad-mouthing the cult.” 

“Which is _practically_ the same thing.”

“Oh, come on, Michael, we all know they hate each other.” 

Martin shifted on his feet awkwardly. A _cult?_ Was that why they were so weird, were they trying to recruit him to some sort of cult? “Hey, um, sorry but, I am _very_ not interested in anything like a cult.”

Both smiled as if Martin had said a joke, Mike shook his head, “No worries, neither are we. Our patrons are much more on the lone man side of things, much less the Lonely but apples, oranges.”

Patrons? He huffed, “Okay, cool, good for you, but I’m going to―”

“In all honesty, we’re rather curious about the Archivist.” Mike interrupted, Martin’s blood went cold. 

_“What?_ How do...how do you know that?” he hissed, 

Oliver shrugged, “The Web’s quite the gossip and Annabelle’s always had a knack for it even before the Mother laid its claim on her. I’m sure nearly all the servants know by now. Plus, the Distortion’s done her fair bit of spreading the news.” he said, “And you have to understand a bit, the Archivist coming out of its shrine after so long and after what it did to Jonah and the temple―it is a _really_ interesting story. And for someone so...unlike it, so human.” 

Martin frowned deeply, “I-I don’t understand, somebody _told_ you about me and J―the, the Archivist? I haven’t told anybody other than _Melanie_ , and―” suddenly, it clicked, the names and the questions and the creeping sense of _wrong_ Martin got the longer the two stood there. Suddenly, the scent of ozone was near overpowering and Oliver’s eyes were far too dark. “oh, Christ. Y-You’re like them, aren’t you? Monsters, yeah?”

“Harsh, but yes.” Oliver answered, “Martin, I assure you Mike and I are simply curious and mean you no harm. It’s just that seeing the Eye’s pupil taking a shine to a _barely_ marked human being seems so completely inane.”

Mike interjected, “ _And_ this is even knowing how...testy this Archivist has been. I mean, God, and we thought _Gertrude_ was unpredictable but this one. I mean, what avatar sabotages its God’s own ritual?” he said, looking incredulous as if Martin had an answer, “If the Vast had a chance like Jonah had...I’d do anything.” 

“The―what? No, no,” Martin waved his hands, “I don’t know who o-or _what_ you two think I am but I’m not involved in anything like _whatever_ you’re talking about. Jon and I just _talk,_ there’s no ritual o-or Gods or whatever!”

“Jon?” both echoed, interest clearly piqued, “It named itself?” 

Martin breathed out sharply out his nose, “I’m leaving. Pl-Please don’t talk to me about this again.” 

Mike pursed his lips, “I respect the boundary but Martin,” he took a step closer, “others will be just as interested in you as myself and Oliver and not all of those who serve the Fears are so...civilized. I’m sure that the Archivist has enough power to protect you itself but you might want to keep any eye out for anyone...strange.” he winked and vertigo hit Martin like a truck. Oliver’s hand steadied him, 

“We’ll try to get the word out that you’d rather be left alone, you should tell your Archivist about the attention, too. Though I’m rather certain it already Knows.” 

“Um, thanks.” Martin managed to say, “Thanks for that.” he swallowed and made his way to leave. Stopping short because, well, if he wanted answers about the Archivist this was probably the time to ask. “B-By the way, do you two...know anything about the Archivist? Beyond him being the ‘pupil of the Eye’ or whatever.”

Both shrugged, “There isn’t much left to know about it.” Oliver admitted, “Decade or so back it burned down the Institute and killed Jonah Magnus then after that? Nothing. Total radio silence. Plenty of avatars have tried to see what’s become of it but it really just seemed to want to be left alone―before you, that is.” 

Martin gaped, “He _killed_ somebody?”

Mike looked to be completely confused with his reaction, scoffing, “It killed _Jonah_ ―massive prick, basically did us all a favor. We should be giving it a medal.” 

“I do have to admit seeing the End finally get him _was_ just a bit satisfying.” Oliver said. 

“But he―” 

Tim suddenly slid in, “Heyo, Marto, we got some coffee cake in the break room if you wanna…” he slowly noticed the strange situation he’d walked into, “get some…er, what’s going on here?” 

“Just chatting.” Mike said, smiling, “Martin here knows a friend of ours we haven’t seen in quite some time, we just wanted to check in.” 

By the expression on Tim’s face Martin knew he didn’t buy a syllable of Mike’s explanation, he quickly took hold of Martin’s shoulder, “Okay…sorry, but, I kind of need to borrow him for a quick sec. We’re having a library emergency in the back and nobody’s better for those than this strapping young lad.” 

Oliver hummed, “It’s alright, we were just leaving anyways. I hope we haven’t bothered you too much, Martin.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. You’re fine.” 

“Great.” he smiled, “And be assured we will respect your boundary but you need to be careful. It may be against my nature but I don’t want the End to claim you just yet.” he looped his arm around Mike’s shoulder, “Be seeing you.” 

Once the two were gone Tim finally let his hand drop, “Okay. What the hell was that?” 

Martin exhaled fully for the first time since he’d been cornered, “No idea. They started talking about cult stuff and patrons and Gods…”

“Holy shit,” he set his hands on his hips, “were they trying to recruit you or something? I didn’t know shit like that actually _happened,_ ”

He shook his head, “I-I don’t think? They didn’t even really _explain_ anything but, um,” he sighed, “apparently I’ve kind of garnered a lot of attention on their side.”

_“How??”_

“A series of super bad decisions.” 

“Fuck, man,” Tim ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the little braids Sasha had done, “a-are you safe? You can totally stay with me for a bit if you don’t want to stay at your flat, I still have that, that spare room.” 

He smiled at Tim’s generosity but the idea of dragging him into this was sour on his tongue. If Tim―the first to tell him to avoid the supernatural―came home to find him arguing with Helen or to see other ‘avatars’ knocking down his door, it’d be terrible. “It should be fine, really.” he insisted, “I think the only reason they knew exactly where I was was because Mike’s met me before.” 

“What if those other freaks know, too?” he argued, “I’m not losing anybody else, Martin, not after Danny.” 

Martin’s eyebrows drew together, “Danny…?” 

Tim froze up, expression falling into something much more tired and worn out than Martin was used to seeing. He inhaled slowly, shoulders dropping, “Danny was my little brother, he died a few years back and it was because I didn’t protect him enough. It fucking sucks and I never want see somebody I care about get hurt because _I_ dropped the ball again, okay?” he said in one low breath, drawing into himself. 

“Oh, my God. Tim, I,” he took the lanky man into his arms, “I-I had no idea.” 

“I don’t like talking about it. Obviously.” he wetly chuckled into Martin’s shoulder, “Why do you think I beat myself up so much over the Magnus thing? And I know, I _know_ it’s not my fault but that wouldn’t have changed anything if one of you had ended up hurt or...you know.” 

“Yeah.” he pulled away, “And, um, Danny’s death, it was definitely supernatural. No matter what the police report says about him _‘going missing’,_ I know what I saw. So seeing another _thing_ go after people I love really stirred everything back up. I started doing the whole breaking into places thing because Danny used to but, God, if _that_ wasn’t a sign to stop…” 

Martin clicked his tongue. He was an only child with barely enough cousins he didn’t consider close enough to be called his de facto siblings. If _anybody_ was his sibling―it’d be Tim. They were maybe only two or three years apart but Tim had always treated him like he was his to protect and guide through life. He could recall with almost crystal clarity all the hours Tim had taken to teach him all about presenting masculine and the mess of the time he’d had teaching Martin how to shave (“I want to do this, it’s my pleasure” he’d said when Martin had fretted over taking too much of his time). 

Now, the image of Tim standing over his brother’s casket was blazing bright in his mind. 

Again, he pulled Tim close, “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“I’m just sorry.” he muttered, “Love you.”

Tim chuckled, ruffling his hair, “Love you too, now stop getting cornered by weirdos, won’t you?”

“I’ll try.” he smiled, trying his best to get his hair back in place, “Um, you said something about coffee cake?”

“Yeah! Sash picked some up from this bakery, we saved you a slice, c’mon.”

He led Martin out of his little alcove and if Martin kept an eye out for anybody who rubbed against his perception of reality, well, that was for him to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that moment when your cringe crush commits some fail violence 
> 
> hope you enjoy my oliver/mike propaganda. let! those! nihilists! kiss! also helen <3 baby i miss u so much


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbians get behind me

Georgie and Melanie lived on the third floor of a modest block of flats, the outside of their door decorated with a small whiteboard with a drawing of what was probably two ghosts holding a cat. Martin smiled at it for a moment before he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the door. 

“I got it!” somebody, Georgie based off of the fact that Martin did not recognize her voice, called and the door soon opened to reveal a tall, brown-skinned freckled woman with tied up dreads and a plethora of ear piercings. She smiled brightly, “Oh, hi! You must be Martin!” she reached out a hand, taking away one from where she was holding a true beast of a cat, “Georgie and this,” she lifted her arm, “is the Admiral.”

He shook her hand, minding the copious rings on her fingers, “Hi, um, yeah, M-Melanie’s mentioned you.” 

“She better have!” she said with a sharp grin. 

Melanie laughed from inside, “Hun, let the man in before he grows old.” 

Georgie rolled her eyes and stepped aside to let Martin in, “I’m just making sure my girlfriend loves me, sorry.” 

The other got up from her place on the couch, kissing Georgie’s cheek quickly, “Oh, that was never a question.” she hooked her arm around the other’s shoulder, “Well, Martin, welcome to our little abode. Feel free to get comfortable...wherever.”

Their apartment was full of twinkling lights, art that Martin didn’t understand, and a whole wall of photos of the Admiral with critic-style commentary from the both of them. There were enough plants for it to be legally considered a rainforest and a good amount of framed stories and fanmail about  _ Ghost Hunt UK  _ and Georgie’s podcast  _ What the Ghost?! _

It was so clear that two people lived there and that those two people loved each other exceptionally. 

He sat on the green velvet couch and was taken aback once Georgie deposited the Admiral into his lap, “He loves attention,” she commented, “just give him pats and he’s all yours, I promise.” 

“Oh, t-thank you.” 

“No problem!” she sat on the pink loveseat, joined by her girlfriend, “Sorry! God, I totally forgot to ask, would you like some wine? I feel like we’re all going to want some wine.”

Martin shook his head, “I-I don’t drink, tannins are a proven headache trigger and…”

Georgie snickered, “Totally get you―Melanie?”

“ _ Please. _ ” 

“Course.” she kissed her forehead, “Be right back.” 

Georgie slipped away into their kitchenette, Melanie relaxed back onto the couch, “How are you holding up?” 

Martin scoffed, “How are  _ you  _ holding up?!  _ You  _ were the one who got attacked.” 

“Yeah but  _ you _ just found out your friend attacked somebody. I’m pissed off still but I’m doing better. Finding out the little freak had somebody like  _ you  _ as a friend is the only thing that’s kept my mind off it by sheer confusion alone, so I ask again―How are you?” 

He sunk deeper in the couch, “I’m―okay? I think?” he said vaguely, “I haven’t gone back to see them since I found out but I, like, I miss them? I miss them a lot. But this and...other things just made me realize I don’t actually know him? At all?” he breathed, “We’d been living in our little world for so long and this just  _ popped _ the bubble, I guess. Not that I’m blaming you for anything, no, no, what he did was wrong. I came here to help you and I just went off about my own problems, sorry.” 

Melanie waved him off, “I asked you to come here so we could bitch about monsters, you’re golden.” Georgie reentered, handing Melanie a mug full of wine that matched her own, “Thanks, love.”

The other sat awkwardly on the loveseat, taking a swig of her drink, “What did I miss?” 

“Not much.” Melanie admitted, “Hon, you wanted to ask Martin some questions, right?” 

Georgie sat up straighter, “Right!” her kind eyes turned to Martin, “I’ve just been dying to know―how was it―they?―they. How were they? It sounds like you two got pretty close but how does that  _ work _ ? You two are entirely different from the sounds of things. Beyond you seeming entirely lovely versus the fact that I may just bite them if I ever get the chance.” 

Martin laughed softly, he ran a hand through his hair, “I-I don’t really know how it worked, it just did. They really tried to get me to leave them alone at first with a bunch of posturing about being a big scary monster but I’ve always just been...hard to scare off. It was sort of  _ cute  _ in a way, h-he’s got this stammer, you know? And when he’s nervous it gets so much worse, I told him I was going to leave and he got...worried. Could barely get a sentence out. Happens when they’re excited, too, they get all jittery and keep their hands still for the life of them.” he smiled, “You know, he had no clue what he looked like before I got them a mirror and they became so much more  _ tangible  _ after that, you know? He wasn’t some monster under the bed, he was  _ scared  _ and  _ alone  _ and so am I! We just click, I guess.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! He can talk for hours about his favorite tapes and he gets so excited, it makes it easy to forget he’s talking about somebody’s  _ literal  _ nightmare. It’s like we’re just two normal friends hanging out in some overstuffed library―then he says something like: ‘Oh, yeah, by the way, I can’t be recorded because my existence doesn’t do well with technology’ and I’m just like, ‘Okay’.”

Melanie groaned, rolling eyes, “For fuck’s sake, wish I’d known  _ that _ . Got my brain scrambled and all I got to show for it is static and distortion. Can’t even use a frame of it.” 

“I-I would’ve told you,” he said, “honestly, I’d completely forgotten that you two were going to check it out.” 

“I’m just glad I got out of there in one piece. With the claws on his hand? He could’ve definitely done much more  _ visible  _ damage, if you get my drift.” 

Martin paled, “Right. Yikes.” 

She raised her glass in acknowledgment of near death, laying her head onto Georgie’s shoulder. Georgie planted a kiss into her hair, she redirected her attention onto Martin, “What does he look like? Cause all Melanie said was ‘eyes’ so all I’ve been visualizing is a big, fat eye in the air.” 

“Close enough!” Melanie exclaimed. 

He laughed, “Yeah, um, I guess. He’s really...he’s really something. It’s hard to  _ look  _ at them straight on, it’s like your brain’s trying to go through your nose but―it’s worth it.” he picked at his nails, “He’s got these eyes, like six or seven of them at least, and they’re literally the brightest green I’ve ever seen, they’re amazing, and he’s always got his hair in his face and he ties it up with  _ binder clips _ . It’s ridiculous, they’re” he smiled to himself, “absolutely ridiculous.” 

Melanie suddenly burst out laughing, poorly hiding her cackling behind her hand; Georgie looked to be on the same avenue, hiding her smile with the lip of her mug.

“What?” Martin questioned, completely lost, “Melanie, what...did I say something stupid?” 

“No, no!” she gasped out, “It’s just... _ Christ,  _ Martin do you hear yourself?” 

“What do you mean…?”

“‘Oh, my lovely monster friend with the beautiful eyes and the cute stammer and they’re so ridiculous but I miss him so much!’” she said in a melodramatic tone, draping herself all over Georgie. Martin burned with embarrassment, the Admiral mewled in his arms, 

“Y-Yeah?” 

“Martin!” she sighed exasperatedly, “...How long have you liked them because you are absolutely besotted.” 

His face flushed bright red, “What?! No, no, n-no! I don’t, I― _ no. _ ” he sputtered, “We’re friends, we’re  _ just  _ friends.” 

Melanie arched an eyebrow, “You don’t see me waxing poetic about Sasha’s eyes but okay.” she snickered, “Kind of reminds me of your ex, Georgie.”

“Oh,  _ God _ , yeah.” she rolled her eyes, “I used to date this guy back in uni, Martin. It didn’t work out, obviously, but it took him  _ seven months  _ to realize I was flirting with him.” she said, eyes shining with the memory, “I leaned in to kiss him while we were at some basement show and he acted like he had  _ no  _ idea I was into him. He was quite an odd person…” she shook her head, “anyways! Martin, I do agree with Melanie. You seem like you’ve got it  _ very bad. _ ” 

“I don’t, I…” an image of Jon came to him unbidden, the crinkle of their eyes and the way they snorted when they laughed despite it being impossible. Despite  _ them  _ being impossible. And yet, there they were. He groaned, “Guys, he isn’t human. He’s trying; Christ, he’s  _ trying  _ but it won’t change that if he ever  _ was  _ human, that was a long time ago. They probably see me as some little speck of life that keeps coming back a-and I’m angry with them! They attacked Melanie and they’ve hurt other people, and he never would’ve told me if I hadn’t cornered him or  _ been  _ cornered by Mike and Oliver.”

“Mike and Oliver?”

“Other people like him. Apparently, there’s a whole lot of them all around London, call themselves avatars, I think.” 

“Lovely.” Melanie grumbled. 

“I know.” he curled a lock of hair around his pointer finger, “And you want to know the worst part? Part of me is  _ fine  _ with that, some little desperate part of me is okay that I don’t know about his past or what he’s done because he makes me so damn  _ happy _ and he sees me like nobody else has. Isn’t that awful? I’m sitting here,  _ talking  _ to somebody they lashed out at and all I can think about is how much I miss him.”

Georgie sympathetically smiled, “Caring about somebody is like that. You take them entirely, all the messy bad parts included.” she wrapped her hand around Melanie’s, “I don’t condone what your friend did, I will hit him with my car if I ever see him but you obviously see something in them or that little part of you would be easier to ignore. I think what you  _ need  _ to do is talk to him, just put all the cards on the table.” 

The Admiral arched his back under Martin’s hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose, “You’re right. I know you’re right and I  _ really  _ hate it.” 

“She always is!” Melanie smirked, “My girl, the eldritch relationship therapist. Where would I be without you?” 

Georgie dramatically posed a hand over her forehead, “Doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Martin smiled. They clearly had a good thing going, them vs the rest of the world. He’d never thought about himself as someone that has love happen to them, he’d spent too much of his life trying to make himself smaller that he’d never had enough time to love and be loved in return. Sure, he’s tried. Awkward dates, regrettable one-night stands, texts left unanswered. But he’d never once come close to what the two in the loveseat had―that all-encompassing, entirely chosen love. Bad parts included. Melanie talked about the horrors of dealing with rabid fans while Georgie combed through her hair, Georgie joked about the corniness of her podcast’s sponsors while Melanie nestled herself in her arms. They loved each other, it was a simple and plain fact. 

That love wasn’t meant for him. That love wasn’t something he could build between him and somebody who’d almost altogether forgotten how to be human. 

But maybe it was. Maybe it was.

☄

He barely registered a moment of the walk back to his flat, thoughts swirling with questions he wanted to ask and things he wanted to know and even scarier things he wanted to say. He tried to keep his eye out for any ‘avatars’ but after the sixth unsavory glance from a stranger, he decided he was just going to take his chances and dive deeper into his thoughts. 

First the questions:  _ What are you exactly? Why does everybody talk about you and some sort of God? Why did you kill whoever Jonah was?  _

Then what he wanted to know:  _ Is this all some trap for me so you can get my ‘story’? How many people have you attacked? Why me?  _

Then, finally, what he wanted to say:  _ I think I might love you. I need you to tell me to stop.  _

Because that’s what he needed, he needed Jon to look him in the eyes and he needed him to let it hurt. 

He unlocked his front door slowly, dreading the night of introspection and gay yearning ahead of him. Martin pushed the door open, kicking off his shoes, tossing his keys to the side, and― 

“Martin.”

He jumped straight in the air, shrieking at the sudden voice in his flat. He pressed himself into a corner, digging through his pockets for any sort of defense weapon but only coming up with discarded receipts. “Shit, shit, shit!” 

The silhouetted figure cocked their head, “Martin?”

“Stay back, stay  _ way  _ back, I-I know you’re one of those avatar things and―”

“What? Martin, it’s,” there was a familiar crackle of static, “it’s me.”

His heart rate slowed just slightly, he reached out to turn on his light, “Jon?!” 

Jon winced at the sudden brightness from where he sat primly on Martin’s couch. Offering a smile to Martin’s incredulousness―with a  _ mouth.  _ He looked more human than he had before, all the gaps in his form filled with more scarred flesh and only two bright green eyes staring back at him. The pressure of their gaze was still there, but it was more like a mild headache rather than staring at a sun that hated you. They almost looked like a regular human if it wasn’t for the trails of something dark leaking from their eyes and mouth like they were some extra in a horror movie. 

“Hi.” he said hoarsely, working the word out of his mouth, “I-I know you didn’t, you were taking some time away from, from me and I get it, I do―I attacked your friend and that was wrong of me, i-it was wrong.” it looked like it physically pained them to speak, more of the dark liquid spilling out and staining his collar, “But it’s been so long and I’m sorry b-but I Looked and an avatar of the Vast and the End were talking to you and I got...scared. I don’t, I don’t need to know what they said, I  _ don’t _ .” their hands twitched in their lap, “But I just wanted to know if you were okay, I-I can leave afterwards if you like.” 

Once they finished speaking they slumped minutely, one eye twitching close to let a glob of  _ whatever  _ that stuff was roll down his cheek. Martin finally got his bearings back, saying slowly, “Yeah, I’m, I’m fine.” 

Another lopsided smile, “Good, good, I…” they trailed off, then stood shakily. Each step to Martin looking as if it took everything out of him. Instinctively, Martin reached out his hands to catch him, Jon took them into his own with a fierce grip, “Martin, I want to tell you everything, okay?” 

“Cool but, um, Jon, a-are you alright? You look a bit...peaky.” 

They listed forwards, weakly wiping their face on their shoulder, “Beholding isn’t too happy about me leaving the Institute, it’s punishing me. It isn’t too bad though, just uncomfortable and I can’t really think very..straight. B-But I know what I want to say, if you want to listen.” 

He tilted backwards, Martin having to grab his waist to keep him from falling over, “I’ll listen, yeah, I will but I want to get you sitting down, you look dead on your feet.” 

“J-Just dizzy.” he fell against Martin’s jumper, effectively ruining it with the  _ goo  _ but Martin was too preoccupied in making sure they didn’t pass out to care. He quickly sat them back down on the couch, them falling against his shoulder.

“There we are.” the blank look in their eyes made a chill run down his spine, “Jon? Are you with me?”

They glanced over to him, “Yes, I...I…” again, they went away, far away, “the position of the Archivist is one where I am meant to directly serve my God―Beholding, the Eye, Ceaseless Watcher: The fear of being watched, of having your secrets known. I take and record statements and in turn Beholding is fed and  _ I  _ am fed by them. There are other avatars of the Eye but the Archivist is a special position, I am the buffer between all that is fear and terror and my patron, I  _ am  _ all that is fear. There've been many Archivists before me but for whatever reason Beholding prefers me, thinks I’m interesting.” Martin shuddered, if Jon was treated like this even when his god  _ liked  _ him, he dreaded to think how it’d treat somebody it wasn’t too fond of, “Beholding is fond of you as well actually, it finds you very funny.”

He grimaced, “Joy...” 

“Before I, I became the Archivist I assume I was probably human. I don’t know, Beholding had to fix so much of me after the fire, I’ve lost most of who I was before. I can remember dealing with Jonah a-and setting the fire but anything before that is...unattainable.” 

“‘Dealing’.” Martin scoffed, “Jon, I know you killed him.”

“Oh. Right, then.” they said, “I had been trying to find a better way of telling you.”

“Hm. Why’d you do it, then? The fire and the y’know.” 

Jon sighed, “Jonah Magnus―Elias Bouchard, whatever name he called himself― served the Eye as well, for a much longer time than me but he’d gotten arrogant and erred too much on the side of the Web at times. H-He’d killed the Archivist before me, chose myself as a replacement then quickly had me marked by each Fear.” he flexed his burned and pitted hands, “He had his own goals of immortality and status―and the Eye grew tired of him, it wanted me as its pupil and needed Jonah out of the way. So, it had me kill him―gouge his eyes out and destroy his body. And the fire? That was more of my own desires than anything.” 

_ Yeesh _ , Martin swallowed, “Okay...what  _ were  _ your desires?” 

They looked up at him, “I could show you.”

“Like,  _ show  _ show me?”

“Yes.” the word ghosted over their lips, “It won’t hurt.” 

Martin shifted, staring into Jon’s torn apart pupils searching for any hint of malice or harm but only saw quiet gentleness. He nodded, “Okay.” 

Jon took his face into his hands, cupping his jaw gently and Martin— 

☄

There is  _ something  _ in his head.

Something so sweet and so acidic and he wants it and he  _ needs  _ it and it’s  _ his _ and―

He slams his hand against his desk, hissing at the pain racing up his arm from his bandaged hand. The  _ thing  _ in his head doesn’t get any quieter, it never says any words, it’s just. A feeling. It feels like coming up for air and drowning all at the same time and each time it ebbs he aches with its absence.

He doesn’t know if he has a history of mental illness in his family. Both of his parents had passed before any questions like that could come up and his grandmother had always been such a private woman who hadn’t liked questions. So there’s no telling if this is just some generational affliction suddenly making its appearance, deciding  _ now _ ―six months into a promotion, six months since he’d been thrown into a world he  _ still  _ doesn’t understand―was the time to make itself present in his head.

It wants him to kill Elias. It tells him to take out his eyes and feel the blood down his hands. It tells him it’d feel wonderful.

Static pulses in his head and he’s on his feet, grabbing a letter opener from his desk. He leaves the archives, which he  _ loathes  _ to do. The archives are safe, they’re more home than anywhere else. Just him and his statements. He used to have assistants but he doesn’t anymore; he should feel horrible for what happened to them but his emotions can’t get through the static. He wants to kill Elias. 

Elias’ receptionist, Rosie something ( _ Zampano _ , he suddenly knows), smiles at him when he passes. She says something about a meeting but he pushes past her and enters the office. 

“Ah, Archivist.” Elias greets when he enters. He never uses his real name, why does he  _ never  _ use his real name? “I wasn’t expecting you to drop by, what can I do for you?”

He opens his mouth, maybe to make up some excuse and slink back to his quarters but instead all he says is, “You killed her.” the words pop and crackle with static that fizzes on his tongue, “It didn’t want you to kill her.”

For a moment, Elias almost looks uneasy, “Archivist? What do you mean? Are you feeling alright, did you touch something from artifact storage?”

_ I don’t know what’s happening to me, Elias.  _ He wants to say but he suddenly knows that that name is false, and has always been false, “Jonah.” he spits, “You are not allowed to kill its Archivists.”

“Oh. Hm.” Jonah raised a manicured eyebrow, “I see.” he leans back further in his chair, “I don’t know if you’re still fully  _ you _ , but whatever’s influencing you should probably be aware that it's going to burn you out. Too much power in such a  _ small  _ body.”

He knows his nose is bleeding, gushing red across his lips and staining his teeth, “You’ve gotten too confident, Jonah. I can handle my own.”

“Can you, Archivist?” he smiles, the thing (his  _ God _ ) in his head screams to do it, “I give you, hm, five or six minutes before your body gives up. You’ll be lucky if you can still  _ speak  _ after this. Shame, too, you were so perfect for my ritual, you were nearly ready.” 

“Your…” and suddenly, it’s crystal clear. What Jonah wants from him, what these last months have been leading to, what his assistants have died for, what his  _ purpose  _ is. His God tells him to slit Jonah’s throat, and the Archivist is all too happy to oblige.

All in all, it doesn’t take long to kill him. He begs and promises and bargains but in the end his God is right―it does feel wonderful.

But he isn’t done.

He tells Rosie to evacuate the building, she barely blinks at the blood covering him or the nosebleed that has slowly but surely turned into a steady stream of ink. Soon the building is empty and he stands in the foyer, in one hand the bloodied letter opener and the other a small token of affection from the Web. He clicks the lighter on and sets it on each of the gaudy curtains Jonah had insisted on. 

And it’s over.

☄

Martin gasped once he finally ripped himself from the scene, steadied only by Jon’s hand, the two of them say nothing for a while until Martin managed to choke out, “H-He wanted you to end the world.”

“Yes. So I stopped him.” 

“Oh, my God, so all your scars―they were just part of a plan? So you could bring on some apocalypse?” 

Jon nods and Martin considers Jonah Magnus lucky because if he was still living, Martin would’ve done something far worse to him. “Jon, I...I’m so sorry.” 

He shrugged, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “I don’t remember any of it if that makes you feel better.” 

“It doesn’t.” Martin pulls Jon close, they melt into the touch as they always do, “Thank you for telling me.” 

“You don’t have to thank me.” they slurred, all their power evidently sapped from them.

“I want to, that can’t have been easy for you to show me.” he brushed back Jon’s hair, “You should rest a bit. I mean, I have questions, obviously but I can ask them when you’re feeling better. My bed’s in the room back there, if you want to sleep.  _ Do _ you sleep?” 

They rested on his shoulder, “I can, I think.” he hummed, “I’m rather comfortable here, though.” 

Martin blushed, then immediately forced himself to ignore that comment, “You can take a break after you get cleaned up, c’mon,” he stood up, very much ignoring the little noise of disappointment Jon made at the action, “I’ve got some rags in my bathroom that I can afford to lose.” 

He helped Jon up and guided him over to his cramped bathroom. Martin sat Jon on top of the counter and grabbed a discarded cloth, running it under some warm water and bringing it to the dark trails, “Hold still.” he said, wiping away the ink in gentle circles. Jon didn’t stop looking at him, eyes burning holes in his head until the last of the ink was gone. Martin hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he felt, he tossed the rag aside once he was done, “There we are. Now, we should probably get you out of those clothes.” 

_ Shit, fuck, fuck! he can’t just  _ **_say_ ** _ that.  _

“I-I, shit, I don’t mean it like  _ that _ , sorry, I just, I meant that that your clothes are covered in ink and it’d probably be, like, m-more comfortable with comfier clothes.” Jon cocked his head to the side, Martin groaned, “Just. Follow me.” 

They moved over to his bedroom, Martin sifting through his mound of unfolded clothes until he found something that wouldn’t be too egregiously big on Jon’s slight frame. He handed them a pale purple sweater and grey sweatpants that Tim had left behind one night, “Here you go.” 

Jon nodded, “Yes, okay.” he glanced down at the clothes, “And you’ll―” he bit down on the rising static, “I would like to make sure that you’re not going to leave.” 

“No, course not.” Martin leaned against the doorframe, “Tell you what, I’ll make us a cuppa while you get dressed. Now that you’ve got yourself a mouth and all,” 

He smiled, “I’d really like that.” 

Martin slipped out of the room, making a point to loudly narrate each step of the tea-making process so they knew he wasn’t straying too far. He set the kettle on the stovetop, pulling out two mugs (his, a pale blue one decorated with clouds and Jon’s a glossy black one covered in little stars) and setting them down, “And Sasha’s always been the most observation out of all of us, believe it or not;” he said, “without her, I don’t think Tim and I would’ve noticed that person stealing. I think you would like Sasha, beyond the whole  _ observant  _ thing. You two act a lot alike when something catches your interests, that non-stop determination.” 

He laughed, placing two green tea bags into the mugs. The kettle whistled, Martin removed it and carefully poured the water into the mugs, “Have I ever told you about the time she broke into some database just to hear a new song by an artist she likes? I’ve never seen somebody so desperate to hear Paramore.” he pulled the tea bags out, mixing in a bit of honey into each mug and added a splash of milk. He took both mugs into his hands, carefully bringing both back to his room, “Apparently, the song was good at least so it…” his words died in his mouth, brain turning to mush. 

Jon blinked in confusion, pulling their hair away from the collar to let it fall down his back, “So it what?” 

It wasn’t fair for them to be acting so innocent when they were standing there with a small, crooked smile absolutely drowning in Martin’s clothes, the sleeves pushed up only to fall and cover his hands again. They still had their cardigan on atop it all, even though the sleeves were smeared with black. Martin stumbled over his thoughts, “I-It, um, nothing. It’s nothing.” he stuck out his arm awkwardly, “Tea’s up.”

The smile got a touch brighter. He took the cup from his hands, focusing on the chill from Jon’s hands for just a moment, “Thank you, Martin.” they took a long sip, a softer smile spread across their face. They wrapped their hands around the mug, “You are right, I-I do feel much better. I can answer your questions now, if you’d like.” 

He didn’t look any better, even without the dripping ink they looked only a moment away from collapse. Martin shook his head, “No, no, it’s fine. Tell me later, you should get some sleep.” 

“I  _ don’t _ ―” they frowned, “you want to understand what I am,  _ I  _ want you to understand what I am.” 

“I do,  _ I do _ , but not if it’s this  _ much  _ for you. If we have to figure each other out  _ slowly  _ then we will.” 

Jon avoided eye contact with him, they fidgeted with their fingers harshly, “Martin, I don’t want to trap you.” 

“What? You aren’t trapping me.”

They hissed, “I am, I  _ am _ . I-I’ve let you be around me without telling you of those who wish me harm and t-the harm I’ve caused―because I’m selfish. Because I wanted you to keep coming back and keep talking to me and keep treating me like I’m a real  _ person _ and I knew, I knew that if I admitted to what I am and what I’ve  _ done― _ I knew you’d run and I” he got quieter, “didn’t want to lose you.” 

Martin’s shoulders sagged, a little proud part of himself preening at being so verbally wanted. He held Jon’s shoulders in a way he hoped was comforting, “You’re not going to lose me.”

“I almost did!” they argued, their voice turning staticky, “I-I don’t know what Helen said to you but I thought you were never coming back. And you would’ve been right to leave, I keep  _ playing  _ at being human and if you had gotten  _ hurt  _ by an avatar it would’ve been  _ my  _ fault and I would’ve never forgiven myself. Hurt or...or― _ damn!”  _ he flinched back, for one second all static and eyes then again back to how he’d been. 

“Jon! Jon.” he exclaimed, they lifted their head, ink brimming in their eyes and a small amount trickling from their nose. Martin wiped the trail away, “Listen to me: You are  _ not  _ going to lose me.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“But I want that.” 

Jon exhaled slowly, pushing Martin’s hand away with utmost gentleness as if his hands were still clawed, “You don’t have to be kind to me.” 

“I want to.” 

Their expression softened, “Martin, this may be incredibly forward of me, but can I, can I stay here tonight? You don’t have to agree, you don’t, but I...I don’t exactly want to be alone.” 

“Yes!” Martin near-shouted, he coughed, reeling himself back in, “I mean, yeah, sure, if you’d like! And we won’t talk about this again tonight.”

He smiled and it was the most beautiful thing Martin had ever seen, “Thank you.” he sipped the mug again, “This tea is very good. And first thing tomorrow I’ll answer everything, more than everything.” they nodded excitedly, “And before we stop talking about this―would you like to say anything?” 

Christ, he’d love to say what he really  _ wanted _ to say. But not now, not when everything could be so easily ruined.

“No,” he lied with a smile, “I can’t really think of anything.” 

☄

Jon liked documentaries. 

In retrospect, that shouldn’t be so surprising but it made Martin laugh all the same. They’d landed on some nature documentary about birds and the like after a bit of conversation. It hadn’t really been meant to be  _ watched _ , just something for background noise, but Martin noticed how Jon’s gaze always drifted to the screen, the sentence he’d been saying completely forgotten. 

Martin smiled, nudging him, “You know we can just watch this, right? We don’t _need_ to talk?” 

“No, no,” they tore themselves away, refocusing on Martin with the physical weight of their gaze, “you were talking about your day and I want to hear about it. You were talking about Georgie and Melanie.”

“We’ve talked enough for today, you especially.” he grabbed the remote and increased the volume, “We’ve earned the right to just relax for a mo’, learn about some birds. Though I guess you already Know all this stuff.” 

They shrugged, “Knowing and understanding are two different things. Besides, I think I like these birds. They’re...cute. They do cute dances.” they fluttered their hand around to mimic the dance of the bird on screen and Martin had to hold back from professing his love right then and there, “I promise not to spoil anything if I  _ do  _ Know anything.” 

“Thanks but…” he shifted to face him, “like, promise to give me a warning if somebody’s about to get eaten. It always makes me sick whenever documentaries like this show that.” he stuck out his pinkie before realizing how completely idiotic it looked, he went to pull it back but Jon caught it in his, shaking it twice. 

“Promise.” 

Martin wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep but he knew that when he woke up the sky was decidedly darker and the small ‘Are You Still Watching?’ prompt glared at him from the screen. He also knew that Jon had fallen asleep too―seeing as they were wrapped around him, one leg across his and an arm flung around his neck; their head resting against his chest, not breathing in the slightest but Martin somehow knew he was still alive. Martin flushed bright red, removing his hand from where he’d let in fall into Jon’s glossy black-and-silver waves and eternally grateful to whatever had allowed him to wake up  _ first.  _

He carefully slipped out of the position, sitting unceremoniously on his carpet and watching Jon for any signs of him waking back up. They looked relaxed in a way he’d never seen them while awake, all the worry and the stiff way they carried themselves replaced with slightly parted lips and their curtain of hair plastered to their forehead. 

He wanted to see them sleeping again and again and again; he wanted to help them tie their hair up at night and brush it through in the morning; he wanted to let himself be touched and held close in the ways he’d always dreamt of being but now...now those fantasies had one common player. 

Martin was in trouble. He was in  _ so much trouble. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a clingy jon truther page


End file.
